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SWEET  AUBURN 


MOUNT    AUBURN, 


OTHER    POEMS. 


CAROLINE     F.     ORNE. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

PUBLISHED   BY  JOHN  OWEN. 


1844. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844,  by 

C.  F.  ORNE, 
in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
METCALF  AND  COMPANY, 


PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


PREFACE. 


MOUNT  AUBURN  is  an  object  of  interest  not 
merely  to  a  few  individuals  or  even  towns,  but 
many  thousand  hearts  are  directly  or  indirectly 
concerned  in  whatever  relates  to  this  beautiful 
land  of  the  departed,  this  "  City  of  the  Silent." 
To  me  every  thing  connected  with  it  has  a 
peculiar  interest.  Its  old  name.  Sweet  Auburn, 
was  very  dear  to  me,  and  from  the  days  of  my 
earliest  recollection  its  scenes  have  been  familiar 
to  my  view.  Beneath  the  shade  of  its  trees, 
generation  after  generation  of  my  ancestors  have 


IV  PREFACE. 

played  as  children  on  their  fathers'  broad  do- 
mains, of  which  these  grounds  formed  a  part, 
or,  soothed  by  the  near  murmur  of  its  wind- 
swept pines,  have  lain  down  in  their  last  repose. 
My  love  for  it,  therefore,  was  but  a  natural 
inheritance,  which  continually  increased  as  the 
days  of  life  wore  on.  There  every  thing  was 
beautiful  to  me  ;  the  birds  sang  more  sweetly, 
the  flowers  were  more  fragrant,  more  profuse 
in  their  blossoms,  more  lovely  in  their  colors, 
and  the  little  water-courses  had  a  more  agree- 
able murmur.  There  the  "  long,  warm  summer 
day "  was  scarcely  long  enough  for  my  com- 
panions and  myself  to  enjoy  the  cool  retreats, 
the  favorite  walks,  the  hills  covered  with  the 
fragrant  wild-strawberry,  or  the  various  and 
beautiful  tribes  of  mosses,  in  their  simple  but 
attractive  forms  and  colors.  We  gave  our  own 
names  to  our  favorite  hilts,  and  held  on  them 
our  little  festivals,  or,  climbing  to  the  highest, 


PREFACE. 


reposed  on  its  summit,  and  recounted  the  wild 
and  wonderful  stories  which  possess  so  powerful 
a  charm  for  childhood. 

The  wild  grace,  the  untrained  loveliness  of 
Sweet  Auburn  has  given  place  to  the  cultivated, 
regular,  and  more  artificial  beauty  of  Mount  Au- 
burn. But  connected  with  the  latter  are  more 
ennobling  associations,  more  hallowed  memories. 
A  calmer,  a  more  subdued  and  thoughtful  spirit 
pervades  the  scene  now  become  sacred  to  the 
deepest  affections.  We  cannot  tread  lightly  or 
irreverently  over  the  ground  which  holds  in 
trust  the  honored  remains  of  a  Channing,  a 
Ware,  a  Buckminster,  a  Worcester,  and  num- 
bers more,  beloved  for  their  piety,  their  use- 
fulness, and  the  expansive  benevolence  of  Chris- 
tian hearts. 

It  has  been  for  many  years  my  favorite  de- 
sign to  make  this  place  the  subject  of  the  poems 
which  are  now  presented  to  the  public. 


VI  PREFACE. 

Of  the  other  pieces  in  the  collection,  most  of 
them  have  already  appeared  in  various  maga- 
zines and  other  periodicals,  but  I  trust  are  not 
unworthy  of  being  preserved  in  a  more  perma- 
nent form. 

CAMBRIDGE-PORT,  April,  1844. 


CONTENTS 


SWEET  AUBURN 1 

MOUNT  AUBURN 27 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

THE  LADY  ARABELLA 91 

ROSES 116 

DREAM-LAND  .  .  .  t  ";  vTi  .  .  126 
THE  DEATHS  OF  JOSEPHINE  AND  NAPOLEON  .  .  139 
THE  REMOVAL  OF  NAPOLEON'S  REMAINS  .  .  147 

TIME,  THE  HUNTER 160 

THE  TWO  TREES       .        .        ...        .163 

SONG  OF  THE  MERMAIDS  .  168 


CONTENTS. 

THE  RIVER  OF  TEMPERANCE  .  .  .  .171 
"WE  LOVED  HIM"  ...._  ,-,  .  »•  ..  •  •  173 
THE  EARTH  AND  THE  MOON  ....  175 

DIRGE 178 

CHILDHOOD'S  SIGH 180 

A  SCENE  IN  ENGLAND 184 

THE  MAIDENS  AND  THE  LEAVES  .  .  .189 
THE  Music  OF  THE  SPHERES  .  .  .  .193 


ER  RATA. 

Page  17,  line  9,  for  seven  readme. 
"      "      "    10,   "    tenth,      "    eighth. 


SWEET    AUBURN 


TO 

THE  HON.   MARTIN  BRIMMER, 

MAYOR   OP  BOSTON, 

TO   ONE   WHOSE   BROTHER  FIRST   DESIGNED,   AND 

WHOSE  OWN  EFFORTS  HAVE  BEEN   MOST  ASSIDUOUSLY  GIVEN  TO 

THE  COMPLETION  OF  MOUNT  AUBURN, 

THESE    LINES 

ARE   MOST   RESPECTFULLY   INSCRIBED 
BY 

CAROLINE  F.  ORNE. 


SWEET    AUBURN. 


FAR-FAMED  Mount  Auburn  !  in  the  days  of  old, 

As  nature  bade  thy  varied  charms  unfold, 

Ere  yet  the  hand  of  art  had  changed  thy  mien, 

And  in  thy  pristine  beauty  thou  wert  seen, 

A  lovelier  object  wert  thou  to  my  view, 

Thy  name  was  dearer  that  my  childhood  knew. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  send  the  spirit  of  thy  shades 

To  light  my  song  when  memory's  radiance  fades. 

A  stranger's  *  hand  hath  struck  the  lyre  for  thee, 

And  I,  thy  child,  how  can  I  silent  be  ? 

I,  who  have  wandered  o'er  thy  sun-lit  glades, 

Have  idly  mused  beneath  thy  twilight  shades, 

*  The  "  Monte  Aubnrno  "  of  Alessandro  is  referred  to  here. 

1 


A  SWEET    AUBURN. 

Through  the  long  summer  day  have  passed  the  hours, 

Gathering  from  thy  green  sod  fresh-springing  flowers; 

Or,  at  the  time  of  noontide's  sultry  heat, 

Have  sought  some  breezy,  calm,  and  cool  retreat, 

Where  the  sweet  pine-scent  filled  the  odorous  air, 

And  all  around  was  bright,  and  free,  and  fair  : 

Child  of  the  soil,  —  how  can  I  choose  but  write 

Of  all  these  varied  scenes  of  fresh  delight  ? 

My  childhood's  feet  have  pressed  thy  verdant  sod, 

O'er  all  thy  woodland  paths  how  oft  I  've  trod  ! 

Or  where  thy  trees,  with  giant  arms  outspread, 

A  cool,  green  canopy  above  my  head, 

Gazed  through  their  branches,  where  the  soft  blue  sky 

Looked  mildly  down,  as  with  a  human  eye  ; 

Or,  lingering  by  the  side  of  thy  small  brooks, 

Have  fixed  upon  their  lilies  eager  looks'; 

As  one,  a  vestal  pure,  her  incense  gave, 

While,  calmly  floating  on  the  idle  wave, 

The  other  would  her  petals  all  unfold, 

And  o'er  the  waters  gleam  a  cup  of  gold  ; 

Oft  with  unsteady  step  and  trembling  hand, 

I  've  won  the  prize  and  brought  it  safe  to  land. 


SWEET   AUBURN.  3 

While  through  the  long  grass  wound  the  startled  snake, 

The  partridge,  scared,  rose  whirring  from  the  brake, 

Oft  on  Moss  Hill  I  've  spread  the  mimic  feast, 

With  gay  companion  for  my  merry  guest. 

Their  smooth,  broad  Leaves  the  oak-trees  would  afford, 

For  polished  plates,  to  grace  our  festal  board  ; 

That  festal  board  of  soft,  green  moss  was  made, 

With  acorn  cups  for  drinking  bowls  arrayed  ; 

Our  food  the  fruit,  our  drink  the  limpid  spring, 

O'er  its  white,  pebbly  bed  low  murmuring. 

But  gayer  feasts,  Sweet  Auburn,  thou  hast  seen, 

Upon  thy  velvet  moss  of  emerald  green, 

When  gallant  youths,  and  gentle,  lovely  maids 

Held  joyous  festival  beneath  thy  shades. 

When  through  thy  winding  woodland  paths  they  've  been, 

Paused  on  thy  hills,  or  wandered  through  each  glen, 

Half-credulous,  half-doubting,  would  they  stand 

Beside  those  plains  of  white  and  barren  sand, 

And,  gazing  round  them,  mark  with  curious  eye 

The  foot-prints  of  Satanic  Majesty. 

And  here,  upon  the  dawn  of  sweet  May-day, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  had  chased  the  dews  away, 


4  SWEET    AUBURN. 

While  yet  the  tender  leaves  were  fresh  and  young, 

And  the  cool  zephyrs  sweetest  odors  flung 

From  their  small  urns,  and  wooed  the  timid  flowers 

To  leave  the  shelter  of  their  woven  bowers, 

When  all  the  smiling  scene  on  every  part 

Was  filled  with  gladness,  as  a  warm,  young  heart,  — 

Then  hither  came,  in  joyance  and  in  glee, 

To  these  sweet  shades  a  "  merrie  companie." 

The  daughters  of  the  city,  gentle,  fair, 

In  light  and  graceful  beauty  wandered  there; 

And,  gay  of  heart,  and  of  most  gladsome  mien, 

Extolled  with  high  delight  the  sylvan  scene  ; 

There,  too,  more  favored  maidens,  who  each  day 

Saw  the  bright  earth  in  loveliest  array, 

The  soft  and  rosy  hue  of  whose  fair  cheek 

Seemed  of  sweet  health  and  happiness  to  speak  ; 

And  Harvard's  sons,  forgetting  scholiasts'  lore, 

Conned  a  more  pleasant  lesson  gayly  o'er  ; 

Wearing  fresh  garlands  of  the  young  leaves  green, 

Lightly  they  gathered  round  their  youthful  Queen  ; 

Or,  where  the  May-pole,  twined  with  wreath  and  crown, 

Seemed  from  its  leafy  honors  to  look  down, 


SWEET    AUBURN.  O 

And  nod  approval  with  a  smiling  glance, 

They  wove  with  flying  feet  the  airy  dance. 

Here,  too,  the  voice  of  merry  childhood  rung, 

And  wild-wood  echoes  answered  as  they  sung ; 

Or,  as  they  danced  and  frolicked  round  the  trees, 

Their  ringing  laugh  flew  on  the  light-winged  breeze. 

O  happy  childhood  !  every  bird's  sweet  voice, 

Green  grass,  and  springing  flower  bid  thee  rejoice  ; 

And  the  cool  brooklet,  murmuring  o'er  each  stone, 

Has,  like  thy  heart,  an  ever-joyous  tone. 

Here,  where  the  moon  shed  down  her  brightest  beams, 

Paling  to  silver  all  thy  rippling  streams, 

Oft  would  the  lover's  lute,  in  pensive  strain, 

To  his  cold  mistress  sighingly  complain. 

And  here,  in  youthful  beauty  and  in  grace, 

Fairest  and  loveliest  both  in  form  and  face, 

The  queen  of  Fays  oft  struck  the  light  guitar, 

While  joyous  echo  bore  the  notes  afar. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  me  alone  to  rove 
Through  the  green  precincts  of  thy  lovely  grove  ; 


6  SWEET    AUBURN. 

Pleasant  to  pluck  the  wild  fruit  from  its  stern, 

Or  'neath  its  green  leaves  seek  the  hidden  gem  ; 

Or,  with  that  fresh  delight  of  childhood's  hour, 

In  thy  green  shaded  haunts  find  some  new  flower.    • 

Pleasant  it  was  to  watch  from  tree  to  tree 

The  lithe-limbed  squirrel  springing  merrily  ; 

Or  hear  the  many-voiced  and  tuneful  choir, 

Their  plumage  glancing  in  the  sunbeam's  fire  ; 

While  the  quail  whistled  in  its  plaintive  tone, 

And  cooing  stock-doves  made  their  gentle  moan  : 

Or  join  the  race  with  playmates  full  of  glee, 

Adown  Stone's  mount,  a  mountain  then  to  me ; 

Or,  older  grown,  to  climb  its  summit  high, 

And  gaze  around  me  with  delighted  eye. 

Lo,  where  the  morning" sun  shed  its  first  ray, 

Boston's  bright  spires  and  domes  before  me  lay ; 

Dorchester's  heights,  and  Charlestown's  battle  mound, 

And  many  a  famous  scene  lay  all  around,    . 

Far  as  the  eye  might  reach,  was  freedom's  hallowed 

ground. 

Hamlet  and  town  shone  in  the  distance  bright, 
And  Charles  far-winding  glowed  a  beam  of  light. 


SWEET    AUBURN. 

Mount  upon  mount  far  in  the  distance  rose, 
Calm  in  their  grandeur  and  their  still  repose ; 
Clothed  were  their  sloping  sides  with  varied  hue, 
Their  summits  veiled  in  soft,  ethereal  blue. 
And,  where  my  eye  delighted  oft  would  rove, 
Stately  old  Harvard  stood  in  academic  grove  ; 
Proud  Alma  Mater  of  full  many  a  son 
Whose  brilliant  course  was  in  her  walls  begun, 
Since  from  her  friendly  arms  forth  she  bade  go 
Her  nine  first  sons,*  two  hundred  years  ago. 
For  their  own  dwellings,  huts  and  cabins  rude, 
Behind  which  stretched  the  interminable  wood, 
The  settlers'  axes  scarce  had  felled  the  tree, 
"  School  of  the  Prophets  !  "  ere  they  founded  thee  ! 
Time-honored  Cambridge  !  here  upon  thine  air 
Swung  the  first  church-bell,  calling  men  to  prayer, 
And  sending  its  clear  summons  far  abroad 
To  those  who  freedom  had  to  worship  God. 
And  of  those  engines  of  unmeasured  power 
For  good  or  evil,  here  in  happy  hour 
Was  raised  the  first  our  native  land  to  bless, 
In  North  America  the  earliest  Press. 

*  In  1642  graduated  the  first  students  of  Harvard. 


8  SWEET    AUBURN. 

After  long  years  of  steady,  ceaseless  toil 

For  his  red  brethren,  children  of  the  soil, 

The  Apostle  Eliot  found  the  end  was  gained, 

The  glorious  crown  of  his  success  attained, 

When  from  this  press  unto  that  race  was  given 

A  Bible,  that  should  teach  the  white  man's  heaven 

In  their  own  forest  tongue,  the  wild,  the  free, 

Where  breathed  the  roar  of  streams,  the  voice  of  liberty. 

Alas,  for  his  high  hope  !  extinct  the  race, 

And  vanished  utterly  from  earth's  fair  face, 

For  whom  his  nightly  toil,  his  daily  prayer, 

His  anxious  thought,  and  never-ceasing  care  ; 

Their  very  language,  like  the  wandering  wind, 

Or  a  forgotten  melody,  passed  out  of  mind  ! 

Flinging  its  thousand  banners  to  the  breeze, 

The  proudest  'mid  thy  tall  and  stately  trees, 

Standeth  the  lofty  Elm,  beneath  whose  shade 

Our  army's  Chief  first  drew  his  battle  blade, 

That  leaped  from  victory  to  victory, 

Till  from  oppression  all  the  land  was  free. 

The  proud  Elm  stands,  but  the  more  ancient  Oak 

Long  since  was  felled  by  time's  remorseless  stroke  ; 


SWEET    AUBURN. 

The  brave  old  tree,  where  long  our  fathers  came 

To  hold  their  councils,  or  their  rulers  name. 

Scene  after  scene  recurred  to  memory  still, 

As  thus  I  musing  gazed  from  Auburn's  hill. 

Proud  mansions  round  me  rose  of  wealth  and  state, 

Where  dwelt  the  patriot,  sage,  and  nobly  great. 

Embowered  in  trees,  yet  rising  fair  to  view, 

Yon  stately  home  held  one  *  to  whom  was  due 

High  honors,  which  a  grateful  country  gave 

To  him  whose  zeal  was  high,  whose  heart  was  brave, 

Whose  hand  was  ready  in  her  righteous  cause, 

To  aid  her  councils,  or  enforce  her  laws. 

If  a  proud  feeling  ever  might  be  known 

By  mute  and  senseless  walls  of  wood  or  stone, 

Well  may  this  mansion  feel  full  proud  to  hold, 

Within  its  sheltering  arms'  embracing  fold, 

Yet  two  more  spirits,  by  whose  lofty  worth 

Blessing  hath  been,  and  yet  shall  be,  for  earth  : 

One  who  hath  sought,  with  deep  and  holy  zeal, 

God's  justice,  love,  and  mercy  to  reveal, 

The  one  long.labor  of  whose  life  has  been, 

For  his  dear  Master's  love,  lost  souls  to  win  ; 

*  Hon.  Elbridge  Gerry. 


10  SWEET    AUBURN. 

And  one  upon  whose  brow  lit  up.  by  truth 

Lingers  the  summer  of  his  early  youth, 

And  yet  whose  name  our  land  is  proud  to  own 

And  joys  to  honor  as  her  Poet-son. 

Thus  would  I  sit  and  muse  on  former  times, 

Give  fancy  range,  wander  to  other  olimes, 

Or  to  the  earlier  ages  of  our  own, 

Ere  yet  the  soil  a  white  man's  foot  had  known  ; 

Till  sportsman's  gun,  or  wandering  student's  tread, 

Disturbed  my  reverie,  and  fancy  fled.  — 

Not  as  thou  wast,  Sweet  Auburn,  art  thou  now, 
Not  as  thou  wast  two  hundred  years  ago  ! 
The  red  man  paused  beneath  thy  lofty  trees, 
And  caught'each  murmur  borne  upon  the  breeze: 
With  noiseless  arrow  from  unerring  bow, 
Thy  harmless  denizens  full  oft  laid  low. 
The  red  man's  children  yelled  their  war-whoop's  cry. 
And  laughed  to  hear  thy  echoes  make  reply. 
The  Indian  youth,  with  skilful  hand  and  true, 
O'er  thy  fair  Charles  oft  sped  the  swift  canoe. 
The  Indian  girl,  with  darkly  glancing  eye, 
And  fawn-like  motion,  bounded  lightly  by. 


SWEET   AUBURN.  11 

And  Indian  warrior,  child,  and  youth,  and  maid 

To  the  Great  Spirit  their  devotions  paid. 

They  loved  thy  shade ;  with  fearless  step  they  trod, 

And  with  proud  bearing,  o'er  thy  verdant  sod. 

They  deemed  thee  theirs;  deemed  the  Great  Spirit  gave 

Their  hunting-grounds  to  them,  the  bold  and  brave. 

Thy  branching  oaks  o'ercanopied  the  seat     . 

Where  the  war-council  once  was  wont  to  meet. 

Those  giant  oaks!  could  not  the  usurper's  hand 

Spare  even  those  from  off  the  doomed  land  ? 

Here  the  grim  savage,  in  his  war-paint  dire,   . 

Danced  with  loud  yells  around  the  council  fire  ; 

Here  were  displayed  the  horrid  trophies  riven 

From  bleeding  victims  to  their  conquests  given ; 

Here  was  the  prisoner  to  the  stake  fast  bound, 

While  demon  bowlings  filled  the  air  around  ; 

Here  flashed  the  tomahawk  before  his  eye, 

While  cruel  tortures  strove  to  force  a  cry, 

A  sign  of  suffering,  from  his  mangled  frame, 

Pierced  by  keen  darts,  or  scorched  by  fiercest  flame. 

But  stern  endurance  marked  the  dying  hour, 

And  the  proud  death-song  rung  with  scornful  power 


12  SWEET    AUBURN. 

From  dying  lips,  breathing  defiance  stern, 
Till  the  last  sparks  of  Ijfe  had  ceased  to  burn. 
O,  they  indeed  were  cruel !  Christian  men 
Shudder  at  horrid  deeds  enacted  then  ; 
But  hi  the  dungeons  of  a  Christian  clime 
Are  there  not  darker  deeds  of  blackest  crime  ? 
Where  papal  altars  grimly  frowning  rise, 
There  reigned  all  evil  in  a  Christian  guise  ; 
Mokanna's  veil  hid  not  so  dire  a  sight, 
Beneath  its  folds  of  silver  gleaming  bright, 
As  in  the  Christian  garb  was  there  concealed, 
In  all  its  horrors  yet  to  be  revealed  : 
The  rack,  that  demons  eyed  with  kindling  glance 
Of  fiendish  triumph,  —  the  Bastile  of  France,  — 
The  Russian  knout,  —  the  exile's  weight  of  woe, 
Siberia's  endless  winter  doomed  to  know,  — 
Ah,  say  !  what  country,  or  what  favored  land, 
Has  never  known  oppression's  bloody  hand  ? 
These  wild,  unnurtured  tribes  had  vjrtues,  too, 
That  o'er  their  darker  deeds  a  mantle  threw. 
They  did  not  spurn  the  weary  stranger's  prayer 
For  food,  or  shelter  from  the  inclement  air ; 


SWEET    AUBURN.  13 

Nor  harshly  drove  him  from  the  tent's  low  door 
For  want  of  yeJlow  dust,  a  little  golden  ore. 
Oppression  made  them  demons  ;  they  were  brave, 
They  loved  their  country,  scorned  the  name  of  slave, 
And  for  their  father-land  they  fiercely  fought, 
Their  wild,  untutored  minds  with  vengeance  fraught. 
The  white  man  came  ;  as  noontide's  scorching  heat 
Wastes  the  bright  dew-drops  in  their  cool  retreat, 
So  wasted  from  the  land  that  primal  race, 
At  the  stern  mandate  of  the  paler  face. 
Rest  they  in  peace  ;  their  savage  virtues  shame 
Too  many  a  savage  with  a  Christian's  name. 
Thy  shades,  Mount  Auburn  !  saw  a  stranger  band 
Delighted  roam  across  thy  fertile  land. 
They  loved  thy  beauties,  and,  with  grateful  awe, 
Believed  their  God  had  given  them  what  they  saw. 
Meandering  Charles !  upon  thy  graceful  stream 
Gazed  fairer  faces,  lit  by  hope's  bright  beam. 
Where  the  tall  trees  thy  highest  banks  o'ershade, 
By  hills  surrounded,  lies  a  small,  green  glade  ; 
Near  by,  a  spring  of  water  brightly  wells 
With  a  low  music,  as  the  sound  of  bells 


14  SWEET   AUBURN. 

'T  is  a  sweet,  lovely  spot,  a  fairy  place 
Of  gentle  beauty,  and  of  quiet  grace. 
Thy  waves,  fair  river  !  linger  on  the  way, 
To  kiss  the  sunny  slope  with  wild-flowers  gay, 
Just  as  they  paused  two  hundred  years  ago, 
And  brightly  sparkled  in  their  rippling  flow. 
Yet  change  has  been  upon  the  land  around, 
Since  first  that  little  band  a  shelter  found 
Upon  thy  banks  ;  since  first  their  mansion  rose, 
And  hum  of  laborers  broke  thy  still  repose. 
Much  thought  they  of  thy  beauties  even  then, 
But  more  of  shelter  from  the  forest  men. 
Armed  must  the  sentry  stand,  the  laborer  toil 
To  turn  the  furrow,  or  to  sow  the  soil ; 
Armed  must  the  shepherd  watch  his  fleecy  oare, 
Cropping  the  emerald  turf  so  fresh  and  fair. 
Yet  still,  from  underneath  the  embowering  shade 
By  sturdy  oaks  and  graceful  elm-trees  made, 
Oft  would  the  sweet,  though  wildly-warbled,  note 
Of  rustic  pipe  on  summer  breezes  float; 
And  old  tradition  tells  of  dark-eyed  maid 
Peeping  with  timid  glance. from  deep  green  glade, 


SWEET    AUBURN. 


15 


To  list  the  music,  and  the  minstrel  see, 

Who  made  such  strange  and  wondrous  melody  ; 

And  oft  the  gentle  youth  was  bade  beware  • 

Of  secret  ambush,  or  of  hidden  snare. 

Not  then,  like  us,  in  peaceful  quiet  deep, 

Might  those  .first  settlers  yield  themselves  to  sleep ; 

No  ;  ere  the  sun's  last  beams  had  passed  away, 

Ere  yet  a  star  shot  forth  its  trembling  ray, 

In  the  old  fort  a  shelter  must  they  seek, 

Women  and  children,  —  strong  must  guard  the  weak. 

With  senses  sharpened, 'and  acutest  ear, 

So  did  they  watch,  the  savage  foe  to  hear, 

Snatched  fearful  slumbers  and  unquiet  rest, 

By  weight  of  cares  o'erburdened  and  oppressed  ; 

Yet  never  failing  in  their  faithful  trust, 

Strong  in  the  strength  of  Him,  the  merciful  and  just. 

Yet  time  sped  on  ;  the  red  man  vanished  fast, 
As  heaven's  dark  clouds  are  swept  before  the  blast ; 
Echo  no  more  gave  back  the  savage  yell, 
Startling  the  fawn  far  down  the  distant  dell, 


16  SWEET    AUBURN. 

Yet  prayers  still  rose  from  dwellers  on  thy  sod, 
Heartfelt  orisons  to  the  white  man's  God. 
A  rapid  change  stole  o'er  the  land  apace, 
Less  wildly  beautiful  became  its  face  ; 
But  fields  of  waving  grain,  and  meadows  green, 
And  golden  orchards  everywhere  were  seen  ; 
The  groves  were  vocal  with  the  merry  note 
From  many  a  tuneful  warbler's  tiny  throat. 
Years  passed;  another  mansion  reared  its  head, 
For  thy  first  comers  dwelt  among  the  dead  ; 
And  the  first  dwelling,  falling  to  decay, 
Was  left  deserted,  mouldering  away  ; 
Few  traces  of  that  dwelling  now  are  seen, 
To  tell  the  inquiring  eye  what  there  has  been  ; 
Yet  oft  I  stand  the  river's  margin  by, 
What  time  the  tide  is  flowing  full  and  high, 
And  mark  the  spot  where  first  my  ancestors 
Delighted  placed  their  feet  on  Auburn's  shores. 
And  busy  fancy  peoples  each  dark  glen, 
With  dusky  figures  of  the  forest  men  ; 
Or  bids  that  ancient  homestead  once  more  rise, 
Antique  and  strange,  before  my  wondering  eyes. 


SWEET    AUBURN.  17 

Its  casements  wide,  where  the  dim  light  might  pass 

Through  the  small  diamond  panes  of  leaded  glass, 

Its  few  defences  from  the  savage  hand, 

And  all  around  its  richly  cultured  land. 

And  those  old  pear-trees,  standing  proud  and  high,  — 

They  seem  to  tell  a  tale  of  days  gone  by  ; 

Since  first  their  slender  stems  pierced  through  the 

mould, 

And  their  green  leaflets  hastened  to  unfold, 
Seven  generations  all  have  passed  away, 
The  tenth  is  passing,  and  yet  there  are  they, 
Though  change  is  all  around,  they  yield  not  to  decay. 
That  second  mansion  still  is  standing  now, 
Not  as  it  stood  fifty  long  years  ago ! 
It  stands  where  yonder  wreath  of  vapor  blue 
Rises  above  the  trees  that  hide  the  view  ; 
Its  rustic  porch  was  once  with  roses  gay, 
And  honeysuckle's  blooming,  scented  spray. 
A  laughing  garden  lay  outspread  before, 
With  many  a  blossom  thickly  spangled  o'er  ; 
Lilies  in  snowy  beauty  there  were  seen, 
Peeping  from  leaves  of  fresh  and  shining  green, 
2 


18  SWEET    AUBURN. 

Meet  emblem  of  the  pure  and  kind  of  heart, 
Who  dwell  in  that  sweet  home  from  guilt  apart; 
Fair  flower  of  meekness,  there  the  daisy  bloomed, 
And  Viola's  sweet  breath  the  air  perfumed  ; 
Sacred  to  love,  the  myrtle  flourished  there, 
In  gentle  beauty  radiantly  fair  ; 
Insects  and  gem-like  birds  there  flew  around, 
It  seemed  a  garden  of  enchanted  ground. 
Among  the  flowers,  and  fairer  still  than  they, 
Were  groups  of  children  at  their  frolic  play, 
Darting  like  sunbeams  'neath  the  leafy  trees, 
Their  soft  curls  waving  in  the  gentle  breeze  ; 
The  youngest  still 'the  favorite,  still  caressed, 
The  eldest  boy  the  guardian  of  the  rest ; 
A  lovelier  group  was  surely  never  seen, 
Ev'n  'mongst  the  fairies  in  their  circlets  green. 
The  centre  walk  a  light  pavilion  graced  ; 
An  elm,  its  graceful  branches  interlaced, 
Its  noble  form  above  the  structure  reared, 
Oft  smiling  faces  from  its  branches  peered  ; 
Adorned  with  statues  was  that  building  fair,     • 
The  Muses  might  have  made  their  sojourn  there. 


SWEET   AUBURN.  ] 

The  garden's  boundary  was  that  river  deep, 

Whose  waters  flowed  in  many  a  graceful  sweep  ; 

The  willows,  bending  downward^  kissed  the  stream, 

The  softened  sunlight  cast  a  fainter  gleam  ; 

On  either  side  were  fields  with  plenty  crowned, 

While  softest  verdure  covered  all  the  ground. 

In  burning  summer's  fiery  noontide  heat, 

A  pleasant  shelter,  and  a  calm  retreat, 

Arose  the  Hill,  crowned  with  majestic  trees 

Impervious  to  the  sun,  but  open  to  the  breeze. 

A  grove,  with  shady  walks,  allured  the  sight, 

Meet  place  for  contemplation's  lonely  flight; 

Or,  when  in  summer  clad  in  brilliant  green, 

Like  one's  own  bright  and  smiling  youth  't  was  seen 

Or,  in  sad  autumn,  with  a  gayer  guise, 

'Neath  which  decay  was  pictured  to  the  wise. 

An  orchard's  golden  fruit,  temptation  rare, 

No  dragon  guarded  it  with  watchful  care, 

In  blooming  clusters  might  have  lured  an  Eve, 

Or  Atalanta's  feet  the  onward  path  to  leave. 

Who  was  the  owner  of  this  broad  domain, 
The  hill,  the  grove,  the  orchard,  and  the  plain  ? 


20  SWEET   AUBURN. 

Was  he  a  man  ambitious,  haughty,  proud, 

Who  looked  with  scorn  upon  the  passing  crowd, 

Rude  to  inferiors,  cringing  to  the  great, 

And  paying  court  to  pomp,  and  power,  and  state  ? 

O,  no  !  for  widely  different  from  these, 

With  manners  courteous,  gentle,  full  of  ease, 

His  heart  was  noble,  generous,  free,  and  kind, 

His  intellect  rich,  lofty,  and  refined. 

As  some  fair  stream  in  secret  beauty  glides, 

Its  course  revealing  by  its  verdant  sides, 

So  flowed  his  bounty  ;  so  its  course  alone 

By  grateful  blessings  from  the  poor  was  known. 

The  children  loved  him  :  with  light-hearted  glee, 

Danced  at  his  footstep,  joyed  his  smile  to  see. 

"  Was  he,  at  home,"  some  one,  methinks,  I  hear, 

"  Thus  to  his  parents,  wife,  and  children  dear?  " 

Ah,  yes  !  at  morning's  dawn,  at  set  of  sun, 

His  aged  parents  to  the  Holy  One 

Prayed,  that  rich  blessings  daily  might  be  shed, 

Free  as  the  dews,  upon  their  loved  one's  head  ; 

JHis  wife,  the  gentle  mistress  of  his  heart, 

Throned  in  his  bosom  as  his  better  part, 


SWEET    AUBURN.  21 

With  love  sincere  to  his  love  made  reply, 
So  spoke  her  beaming  smile,  her  joyous  eye  : 
Courteous  and  mild,  calm,  patient,  and  serene, 
Her  gentle  beauty  might  have  graced  a  queen. 
Their  children,  beautiful  as  spring's  first  flowers, 
Bright  as  Aurora,  or  the  laughing  Hours, 
With  lips  of  love,  —  let  this  be  virtue's  test,  — 
Their  children  rose  around  and  called  them  blessed. 
Nor  yet  alone  his  birth-place  owned  him  good, 
But,  in  the  forest's  lonely  solitude, 
A  fair  town,  rising,  echoed  to  his  praise, 
In  the  rude  rustics'  simple,  untaught  lays. 
The  aged  men  ev'n  now  delight  to  tell 
Of  him  their  fathers  used  to  love  so  well  ; 
Who  gave  the  poor  a  shelter,  home,  and  rest, 
And  ne'er  refused  a  refuge  to  the  oppressed ; 
Open  to  all  was  his  own  mansion  fair, 
Stranger  and  friend  alike  found  welcome  there. 
As  kind,  as  courteous,  were  the  manners  bland 
Of  all  that  smiling,  gentle,  household  band  ; 
Ringing  with  mirth,  with  merry  steps,  and  glee, 
No  happier  circle  ever  might  you  see. 


VA  SWEET    AUBURN. 

Why  should  a  change  come  over  scenes  like  these  ? 

Why  should  Death's  pinions  flutter  in  the  breeze  ? 

Why  should  the  good  so  soon  be  called  away  ? 

Why  should  they  not  a  little  longer  stay  ? 

We  know  not ;  —  but,  alas  !  't  is  ever  so, 

The  best,  the  purest  are  the  first  to  go. 

His  aged  mother  scarce  was  laid  to  rest, 

Ere  sickness'  hand  pressed  heavy  on  his  breast ; 

Around  his  couch  of  suffering  and  pain 

His  friends  in  sorrow  gathered,  but  in  vain. 

He  blessed  them  all  in  accents  soft  and  low, 

Bade  them  be  ready  and  prepared  to  go, 

When  God's  kind  hand  should  summon  them  away 

To  brighter  regions  and  eternal  day. 

Vainly,  alas  !  his  friends  and  kindred  wept ; 

The  man  of  many  virtues  calmly  slept : 

Full  many  an  eye  the  tear  in  secret  shed, 

Bowed  down  with  sorrow  was  full  many  a  head. 

Who  followed  virtue  to  the  lowly  grave  ? 

High-born  and  wealthy,  noble,  proud,  and  brave, 

All  who  had  loved  him,  and  his  worth  who  knew, 

Comrades  and  kinsmen,  gallant  friends  and  true, 


SWEET    ATTBURN.  23 

A  princely  train,  with  dirges  bore  him  home, 
And  strewed  fresh  myrtle  leaves  above  his  tomb  ; 
Crowds  of  the  poor,  bound  by  no  other  tie 
But  that  of  grateful  love,  with  many  a  sigh 
And  saddening  thought,  their  mournful  homage  gave, 
And   bathed  with  tears  that  dust  they  would  have  died 
to  save. 

There  came  a  change  o'er  that  sweet  household  band, 
There  came  a  change  o'er  all  that  pleasant  land  : 
And,  after  years  had  rolled  their  ceaseless  round, 
That  tree-crowned  Mount  was  consecrated  ground. 
That  summit  high,  his  honored  name  which  bore, 
Whence  oft  he  viewed  the  lovely  landscape  o'er, 
Which  had  descended  still  from  sire  to  son, 
Since  in  the  wilds  their  life  was  first  begun, 
Which  was  designed  to  be  their  heritage, 
While  time  sped  on  its  flight  from  age  to  age, 
Now  by  slight  chance,  for  trifles  oft  prevent 
The  wisest  plan,  the  best  matured  intent, 
Passed  from  the  heirs  into  another's  hands,* 
To  one  who  loved  the  broad  and  shaded  lands ; 

*  Mr.  George  Brimmer,  with  whom  originated  the  design  of  the  Cemetery. 


24  SWEET    AUBURN. 

Whose  boyhood's  hours  were  passed  the  fair  place  near, 

To  whom  in  manhood's  days  its  scenes  were  dear ; 

And  who,  when  life's  farewell  was  faintly  said, 

Was  laid  to  rest  beneath  the  embowering  shade. 

From  those  two  mansions  men  of  truth  and  worth 

Went  forth  to  scatter  blessings  o'er  the  earth. 

In  earlier  days,  by  earnest  enterprise, 

They  saw  new  towns  in  beauty  round  them  rise ; 

And  that  pure  gospel,  sent  mankind  to  bless, 

Preached  like  St.  John  amid  the  wilderness. 

Some  were  in  arts  of  husbandry  well  skilled, 

Some  in  the  state  high  rank  and  station  filled  ; 

And  some  as  merchants  sent  an  honored  name 

Baclt  to  the  land  whence  their  forefathers  came. 

And  yet  how  few  of  all  that  numerous  band 

Sleep  in  Mount  Auburn's  consecrated  land  ! 

The  father  in  his  manhood's  sunny  prime, 

The  gentle  maiden  in  youth's  summer  time, 

And  two  fair  infants  in  their  earliest  bloom,  — 

They  rest  together  in  the  quiet  tomb. 

Two  hundred  years !  ah  !  space  enough  for  change, 

Within  the  circle  of  their  lengthened  range. 


SWEET   AUBURN.  25 

Two  hundred  years !  and,  lo!  the  forest  deep 

Becomes  the  silent  land  of  dreamless  sleep. 

Ye  spirits  of  my  sires!  while  earth  shall  stand, 

Be  guardian  genii  of  this  hallowed  land. 

As  the  low  sighing  breeze  comes  wandering  near, 

Methinks  your  spirit  voices  oft  I  hear  : 

And  the  soft  music  of  the  whispering  leaves, 

Mystic,  harmonious,  involutions  weaves, 

As  if  a  spirit  song,  in  accents  bland, 

Were  gently  wafted  from  the  better  land. 

O  place  beloved  !  endeared  by  many  a  tie, 

The  tear  of  sorrow  dimmed  my  heavy  eye,  - 

And  deeply  was  my  heart  and  idly  stirred, 

When  first  thy  destined  change  I  wondering  heard. 

Now  have  I  joy,  for  many  love  thee  now, 

Though  cloud  and  shadow  rest  upon  the  brow 

Of  those  who  in  the  solemn  precincts  tread, 

And  shed  the  heart's  dew  o'er  their  silent  dead. 


MOUNT    AUBURN- 


TO 

THE  HON.   JOSEPH  STORY, 

THE   FRIEND   OF  LETTERS, 
WHOSE   LIFE   HAS   BORNE   EQUAL   EVIDENCE 

OF  MORAL  AND  INTELLECTUAL  GREATNESS, 

THE  FRIEND  OF  MY  FAMILY, 

THESE    LINES    ON    MOUNT    AUBURN 

ARE   MOST   GRATEFULLY   INSCRIBED 

BY 

CAROLINE  F.  ORNE. 


MOUNT    AUBURN- 


A  REVERENCE  for  the  dead  !  What  age,  what  clime, 

From  the  remotest  to  the  latest  time, 

Has  not  this  sacred  feeling  known,  expressed, 

To  that  last  place  where  the  departed  rest  ? 

The  same  deep  interest  in  the  solemn  grave 

Which  Abraham  felt  towards  Machpelah's  cave, 

What  being  ever  lived  of  human  mould 

That  feels  not  now,  or  has  not  felt  of  old  ? 

The  pilgrim  wends  his  way  to  other  lands, 

Before  their  mighty  tombs  in  wonder  stands, 

And  the  wild  Arab  gazes  up  in  awe 

To  Aaron's  tomb,  on  desolate  Mount  Hor. 

Centuries  ago,  a  wild  enthusiast  came 

And  kindled  nations  to  resistless  flame, 


32'  MOUNT    AUBURN. 

Led  them  to  view  all  other  gain  as  dross, 

When  marshalled  'neath  the  Banner  of  the  Cross 

Armies  on  armies  sought  with  desperate  war 

Vainly  to  win  the  fallen  Solyma, 

And  from  the  hands  of  infidels  to  save 

The  Holy  Sepulchre,  Messiah's  grave. 

Vain  was  their  lofty  zeal,  their  valor  vain, 

The  Holy  City  infidels  retain  ; 

Jerusalem,  the  fallen,  to  this  day 

Groans  'neath  the  Moslem's  stern  and  iron  sway. 

Of  Israel's  chosen  and  peculiar  race 

A  feeble  remnant  holds  degraded  place  : 

And  yet,  so  deathless  is  their  love,  so  strong, 

They  will  endure  deep  insult,  cruel  wrong, 

Oppression,  poverty,  contempt,  and  scorn, — 

Grind  them  to  dust,  —  all  this  may  yet  be  borne, 

They  cannot  be  more  blest,  if,  when  they  die, 

Their  bones  beside  their  fathers'  bones  may  lie 

In  the  broad  valley  of  Jehoshaphat ;  their  race, 

Ages  on  ages,  claim  this  burial  place. 

Within  this  valley  stands  the  lofty  tomb, 

Cut  from  the  solid  rock,  of  Absalom  ; 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  33 

Christian  or  Jew,  each  passer  casts  a  stone 
At  this  memento  of  the  traitor  son. 
Who  would  not  rather  court  oblivion's  wave, 
Than  have  the  eye  of  scorn  rest  on  his  grave  ? 
The  lowliest  spot  his  dust  would  better  shield, 
The  poorest  grave  in  Aceldama's  field  : 
Better  would  be  the  humblest  grassy  mound, 
Where  fragile  flowers  upspringing  may  be  found, 
While  children,  as  they  pluck  them  from  their  bed, 
Fear  lest  their  little  feet  should  trample  on  the  dead. 

The  Moslem,  too,  their  holy  offering, 
Garlands  and  blossoms  to  the  sleeper  bring, — 
They  sit  beside  the  grave,  they  watch  the  flowers, 
And  the  whole  people  at  the  sunset  hours 
Unto  their  Cities  of  the  Silent  come, 
And  look  with  faith's  clear  eye  beyond  the  tomb  ; 
Faith  in  an  error  !  would  that  we  might  have 
An  equal  faith  in  what  has  power  to  save. 

A  reverence  for  the  dead !  the  savage  wild, 
Nature's  untutored,  rude,  and  reckless  child, 
3 


34  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

And  the  most  civilized,  humane,  refined, 

The  gentlest  and  the  haughtiest  of  mankind, 

Christian,  barbarian,  all  of  every  name, 

One  common  sympathy  in  this  may  claim. 

"  Far  from  the  graves  of  kindred  may  you  sleep," 

Is  ever  deemed  a  bitter  curse  and  deep. 

Who  would  not  have  the  greensward  lightly  pressed 

Above  the  narrow  bed  of  his  last  rest  ? 

Who,  from  his  friends  and  kindred  far  away, 

Would  not,  like  Jacob,  seek  his  bones  to  lay 

Beside  his  fathers',  and,  in  quiet  deep, 

With  them  to  sleep  the  last,  long,  dreamless  sleep  1 

The  Druids  raised  their  lofty  pile  of  stones 

To  guard  their  great  men's  venerated  bones. 

The  Saxon  Fathers,  as  we  rightly  read, 

Sowed  their  God's  Acre  with  immortal  seed. 

O,  well  have  many  named  the  grave-yard's  bound, 

And  made  it,  too,  a  blooming  garden  ground, 

Whose  copious  showers  of  tears  fall  fast  and  free, 

Whose  fruit  is  garnered  for  eternity  ! 

Not  in  the  Old  World  only  may  we  view 
This  reverend  care,  but  also  in  the  New. 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  35 

The  stoic  Indian  o'er  the  silent  dead 
The  tears  of  grief  and  sorrow  may  not  shed, 
But  yet  to  him  there  is  no  greater  woe, 
Than  from  his  fathers'  bones  exiled  to  go. 
The  wondrous  mounds,  so  like  a  fortress  strong, 
Baffling  the  student's  close  research  and  long  ; 
Those  monuments  of  an  extinguished  race, 
That  scarce  have  left  a  faint  and  feeble  trace 
To  mark  the  living,  honoring  thus  the  dead, 
Hence  shall  new  light  upon  their  nation  shed. 

Where  the  rude  Bedouins'  burial  places  stand 
In  the  wild,  lonely  waste  of  barren  sand, 
A  few  stones,  in  a  little  heap  upthrown, 
The  Arab's  resting-place  mark  out  alone ; 
Yet  he  looks  forward  to  his  final  home, 
As  a  proud  noble  on  his  stately  tomb. 

In  China  stands  a  City  of  the  Dead, 
Where  to  their  forms  are  sacred  honors  paid. 
Well  built  their  houses,  green  plants  o'er  them  twine, 
And  smile  the  blossoms  of  the  climbing  vine. 


36  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

In  the  small  chambers  placed  on  platforms  high, 

In  coffins  made  of  camphor-wood,  they  lie  ; 

Embalmed  each  tenant  of  his  narrow  bed, 

And  in  his  richest,  costliest  robes  arrayed  ; 

And  many  an  incense-burner  standing  there 

Has  wafted  its  sweet  odors  on  the  air. 

In  this  immense  mausoleum,  where  the  tomb 

Is  thus  divested  of  its  dreary  gloom, 

Part  of  each  house  is  to  the  worship  given 

Of  the  strange  god  who  rules  the  Chinese  heaven. 

The  Hindoo  gives  his  body  to  the  fire, 
His  ashes  mingle  with  his  funeral  pyre  : 
This  is  the  honor  paid  unto  the  great, 
The  wealthy,  and  the  high  in  rank  or  state. 
The  poor,  thrown  in  the  river  to  decay, 
Of  vile,  rapacious  birds  are  made  the  prey. 

At  Syracuse,  they  lay  the  Capuchin, 
Labelled  and  dried,  his  narrow  coffin  in. 
Within  Palermo's  convent  lie  in  state, 
Nobles,  and  high-born  dames,  the  proud  and  great, 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  37 

Robed  in  rich  garments  gleaming  bright  with  gold, 
And  gems  that  sparkle  from  the  satin  fold : 
Life's  very  mockery,  each  in  splendor  lies, 
While  death  stares  ghastly  from  their  hollow  eyes. 

In  Russia's  Holy  City,*  saints  are  laid 
In  open  coffins  gorgeously  arrayed. 
Religious  zeal  here  a  new  form  assumes, 
And  desperate  hands  have  built  them  living  tombs  : 
Their  pall,  their  shroud,  their  dress  becomes  alone, 
Themselves  encompassed  in  a  wall  of  stone  ; 
But  a  small  opening  left,  their  food  to  pass, 
And  when  they  die,  't  is  covered  o'er  with  glass  : 
These  they  call  saints,  and  in  their  homage  vie 
To  these  poor  relics  of  mortality. 
Yet  who  would  sleep  like  these  to  gain  a  name, 
A  worthless  place,  a  faint,  uncertain  fame  ? 
Who  turns  not  with  a  shuddering  heart  away 
From  where  in  one  promiscuous  mass  there  lay, 
In  the  dread  charnel  of  their  common  tombs, 
The  mouldering  bones  that  fill  the  catacombs  ? 


.30  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Foolish  and  wise,  the  coward  and  the  brave, 

Contempt  and  honor,  thrust  in  one  vast  grave. 

Who  would  be  thrown  'mid  these,  or  who  be  lost 

Among  the  mummies  of  that  myriad  host, 

In  Thebes'  Necropolis  ?     Even  the  pride  and  boast 

Of  Egypt,  those  great  tombs  that  stand 

In  lonely  grandeur  on  the  desert  sand, 

Magnificent  in  splendor,  cannot  save 

The  tenants  of  a  vast  and  mighty  grave 

From  the  despoiling  hands  of  Arabs  wild, — 

The  love  of  gold  strong  in  the  desert  child. 

The  hand  of  art  a  regal  splendor  flings 
In  Melook's*  valley  o'er  the  "Tombs  of  Kings." 
Each  chamber  for  the  dead,  each  corridor, 
Sculpture  and  painting  ornament  them  o'er. 
The  "  Hall  of  Pillars"  rises  proud  and  fair, 
The  "Hall  of  Beauty"  still  is  standing  there  ; 
The  gods  they  worshipped,  sculptured  on  the  walls, 
With  lofty  grandeur  guard  the  sacred  halls, 
As  if  a  solemn  vigil  they  would  keep 
Above  the  honored  dead  who  silent  sleep. 

*  Biban  el  Melook. 


MOUNT    AUBURN. 

In  that  lost  city,*  where  each  regal  street 

Is  trode  alone  by  Arab  robbers'  feet ; 

Lofty  and  high,  proud  and  magnificent, 

The  mighty  tomb,  the  sculptured  monument, 

Carved  from  the  living  rock,  hold  not  in  trust 

Their  haughty  builders'  desecrated  dust. 

So  fearfully  did  vengeance  wield  the  brand, 

And  pour  the  Almighty's  curse  upon  the  guilty  land. 

The  Eternal  Pyramids,  that  rise  sublime, 

Calm  from  their  altitude  look  down  on  time. 

On  Karamania's  coast,  sarcophagi, 

Mausoleums,  and  urns  in  ruin  lie. 

Athenia's  great  men,  her  illustrious  dead,' 

Were  in  her  sacred  Ceramicus  laid, 

And  Rome's  proud  monuments  and  Appian  Way 

Breathe,  from  the  sculptured  marble, "  Traveller,  stay !" 

England  her  abbeys  boasts,  where  proud  and  high 

Her  haughty  hearts  in  regal  splendor  lie ; 

Ancestral  tombs,  where  long  and  lofty  lines 

In  silence  sleep  within  their  marble  shrines, 

*  Petra. 


ind. 


4U  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

While  through  stained  glass  rich  light  falls  on  the  tomb, 
And  beam  the  rose-tinged  rays  throughout  the  twilight 

gloom. 

Greece  has  her  classic  shrines ;  her  monuments, 
Rich  in  their  sculpture,  Italy  presents  ; 
And  oft  the  stranger's  voice  is  heard  to  praise 
The  peaceful,  solemn  shades  of  Pere-la-Chaise. 
They  claim  our  reverence  who  are  lowly  laid 
To  sleep  beneath  the  mourning  cypress'  shade  ; 
The  solemn  cypress,  sad  funereal  tree, 
From  Persian  Gulf  unto  the  Caspian  Sea; 
And  sacred  to  the  dead  it  still  is  found 
On  Chinese  shores  unto  their  utmost  bound  ; 
From  where  Mazanderan  far  distant  lies, 
To  where  Constantinople's  crescents  rise. 

A  reverence  for  the  dead  !  all  hearts  obey, 
Wide  as  the  universe  extends  its  sway, 
But  most  its  power  the  Christian  heart  should  feel, 
And  its  best  influence  Christian  lands  reveal. 
It  writes  above  the  dust  sweet  words  of  love, 
It  lifts  the  eye  of  faith  to  worlds  above ; 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  41 

Inscribes  not  on  the  hero's  tomb  alone 

"  Siste,  Viator  " ;  but  on  every  stone, 

That  marks  a  spot  where  truth  and  worth  may  claim 

Love  of  fond  hearts,  though  all  unknown  to  fame. 

It  sanctifies  the  earth,  and  makes  the  ground 

A  holy  spot,  where'er  the  dead  are  found. 

Blessed  be  its  hallowed  influence  !  it  led 

To  consecrate  for  ever  to  the  dead 

A  spot  than  which  the  eye  may  never  trace 

In  any  land  soe'er  a  lovelier  place. 

Blessed,  O  Mount  Auburn,  be  thy  leafy  shades ! 

Blessed  be  thy  hills,  thy  streams,  thy  cool,  green  glades ! 

Change  hath  passed  o'er  thee  since  the  days  of  yore, — 

Blessed  be  thy  hallowed  sod  for  evermore  ! 

Calm  was  the  morning  of  that  lovely  day  ; 
The  autumnal  sun  in  golden  splendor  lay 
On  the  smooth  turf,  the  broad,  enamelled  plain, 
The  waving  harvest  field  of  ripened  grain, 
And  shed  its  glory  o'er  the  forest  wide 
In  rich  and  glowing  colors  deeply  dyed  ; 
Upon  the  earth  the  cloudless  heaven  smiled ; 
The  soft  south-west  breathed  perfume  faint  and  mild ; 


42  MOUNT    AUBURN. 

Such  kindly  influence  from  above  was  shed 

Upon  that  day  which  gave  thee  to  the  dead  ! 

Where  the  green  hills,  rising  abrupt  and  steep, 

Guard  that  calm  dell  *  where  peaceful  waters  sleep, 

An  earnest  multitude  assembled  there 

Listened  with  reverence  to  the  solemn  prayer, 

That,  rising  through  the  dim  aisles  of  the  wood, 

Went  from  full  hearts  up  to  the  living  God. 

Then  swelled  the  choral  song,  the  hymn  of  praise 

Went  floating  through  the  greenwood's  twilight  maze, 

Filling  the  air  with  harmony  of  heaven, 

Till  the  rapt  spirit  deemed  seraphic  response  given. 

Alas  !  how  many,  who  with  hearts  full  fraught 

With  reverent  feeling,  and  in  silent  thought, 

Listened  intent  to  catch  the  briefest  word 

Of  onet  whose  eloquence  all  hearts  has  stirred, 

How  many  now  are  silent  laid  to  rest !  — 

Light  lies  the  turf  on  many  a  loved  one's  breast. 

Thou  who  art  weary  of  the  world's  wild  strife, 
Leave  for  a 'time  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 

*  Consecration  Dell.  f  Hon.  Joseph  Story. 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  4 

Come  to  these  shades  ;  in  meditation  calm 
For  thy  chafed  spirit  shall  be  found  a  balm. 
Pause  at  the  portal  for  a  moment's  space 
Till  the  inscription  you  may  clearly  trace, 
Blessed  words  of  comfort,  and  assurance  blessed, 
That  heaven,  not  earth,  is  the  believer's  rest. 

Draw  near  with  quiet,  reverential  tread, 
'T  is  holy  ground,  —  this  City  of  the  Dead  ; 
Let  no  rude  accents  of  untimely  mirth 
Break  the  calm  stillness  of  this  sacred  earth; 
With  a  soft  footstep  draw  more  gently  near, 
Pain  not  with  careless  jest  the  mourner's  ear  ; 
Be  the  low  voice  attuned  to  accents  bland 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  spirit  land. 
Here  are  the  ashes  of  the  loved  inurned, 
Here  hath  the  dust  unto  the  dust  returned  ; 
Here  doth  the  living  heart,  by  anguish  led, 
Call  wildly  to  the  heart,  cold,  still,  and  dead ; 
No  voice  is  uttered  from  the  sombre  gloom, 
There  comes  no  answer  from  the  silent  tomb. 
Where,  where  are  those,  the  loved,  the  lost  ?  O,  tell, 
Where  doth  the  disembodied  spirit  dwell  ? 


44  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Fulness  of  joy,  say,  hath  it  entered  in, 

Which  ear  hath  heard  not,  eye  hath  never  seen  ? 

Or,  steeped  in  bitterness,  doth  the  soul  raise 

To  a  lost  heaven  its  dark,  despairing  gaze? 

O  awful  mystery  !  and  revealed  to  none 

Till  the  death-angel  claims  them  for  his  own. 

Still  the  worn  heart,  restless  and  sad,  will  crave 

An  answer  even  from  the  silent  grave. 

Do  they,  who  loved  us  once,  still  love  us  now, 

Joy  in  our  joy,  mourn  for  our  guilt  or  woe  ? 

Or  doth  the  memory  of  this  world  but  seem 

As  the  dim  shadows  of  a  troubled  dream  ? 

Angels  must  see  us,  for  with  one  sweet  voice 

Over  repentant  sinners  they  rejoice  : 

May  it  not  be  that  those  for  whom  we  weep 

Are  guardian  angels  now,  who  watch  to  keep 

The  tempted  soul  from  idol  worship  free, 

In  the  lone  chambers  of  its  imagery, 

Or  rouse  its  slumbering  energies  to  life, 

Or  guard  it  in  the  hour  of  mortal  strife  ? 

O,  who,  who  has  not  heard,  when  sin  assailed, 

When  virtue,  fainting  half,  has  almost  failed, 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  45 

Who  has  not  heard  a  low,  sweet,  pleading  tone, 
"  Sin  not,  my  child  !  do  not  this  wrong,  my  son  !  " 
As  if  a  spirit  voice  had  stirred  the  air 
With  the  beseeching  fervor  of  that  prayer  ? 
Would  we  but  heed  it  always,  we  should  be 
From  sin's  strong  power  and  from  dark  evil  free. 
By  stormy  passion  we  are  tempest-tost, 
In  the  wild  strife,  the  low,  sweet  voice  is  lost  ; 
Or  pleasure's  syren  warblings  fill  the  ear,    « 
And  the  sad,  warning  tone  we  will  not  hear. 
Yet,  even  when  yielding,  where  we  ought  to  win, 
A  spirit-sigh  seems  mourning  for  our  sin, 
And  stirs  the  heavy  air  that  hems  us  in. 

Methinks,  Mount  Auburn,  in  thy  deep  shades  blest, 
Life's  weary  wanderer  may  full  softly  rest ; 
Nor  he  alone,  who,  weary  with  the  strife, 
Has  fallen  upon  the  battle-field  of  life,  — 
Not  he  with  victory  crowned,  and  honors  proud, — 
Not  the  high-hearted,  not  the  much  endowed,  — 
Not  these  alone  proud  monuments  uprear  ; 
Not  the  renowned  alone  are  sleeping  here. 


46  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Here  rests  the  infant,  who  his  mild,  blue  eye 

Unclosed  a  moment,  then,  with  tremulous  sigh, 

Into  his  mother's  bosom  gently  crept, 

Turned  from  life's  scenes  away,  and  calmly  slept. 

Here,  too,  the  mother  rests  ;  her  sweet  caress, 

Her  heart's  deep  love,  her  words  of  tenderness, 

The  dear  bereaved  ones  nevermore  shall  bless. 

Here,  too,  glad  childhood  ;  o'er  its  narrow  bed 

Innocent  flowers  their  grateful  odors  shed. 

Here  loved,  and  early  lost,  young  maidens  sleep  ; 

Nor  tears,  nor  prayers  from  death  their  forms  could  keep. 

Youth,  with  its  high  resolve  and  proud  desire, 

Its  noble  ardor,  its  impatient  fire, 

Cold  in  the  dust  has  silently  laid  down  ; 

Manhood  is  sleeping,  age  with  silver  crown, 

The  man  of  God,  the  warrior  and  the  sage, 

The  atheist  scoffer  at  the  holy  page, 

The  wise,  the  ignorant,  the  low,  the  high, 

The  good,  the  beautiful,  together  lie  ; 

The  wealthy  'neath  his  proud  sepulchral  stone, 

The  poor  man  in  his  nameless  grave  alone. 


MOUNT    AUBTTRN.  47 

And  yet,  perhaps,  't  is  but  of  little  worth, 

Whether  a  stone  shall  mark  the  spot  of  earth 

Where  sleep  the  dead  ;  the  humblest  grassy  mound, 

Unnamed,  by  those  who  love  us  would  be  found. 

Unto  the  spirit,  what  was  once  its  home, 

Truly,  of  little  value  has  become. 

But,  for  the  living,  well  to  often  stand 

In  the  still  precincts  of  the  silent  land, 

To  read  those  lessons  from  the  sombre  tomb, 

Which  they  themselves  shall  teach,  few  days  to  come. 

Thought  in  this  lovely  place  more  holy  grows  ; 
Feeling's  deep  current  here  more  tranquil  flows ; 
A  calm,  a  soothing  influence  o'er  the  heart, 
These  scenes,  so  fair,  so  beautiful,  impart. 
From  the  dark  pines  a  restless,  murmuring  tone 
Wails  o'er  the  dead  a  ceaseles,  dirge-like  moan ; 
And  their  sweet  fragrance  to  the  air  is  given, 
Incense-like  wafted  on  the  breeze  of  heaven. 
Soft  blue  eyes  glistening  with  the  tears  unshed, 
Fair,  dew-gemmed  violets,  weep  above  the  dead ; 
And  starry  asters  purple  leaves  unfold, 
And  solidago  lifts  its  rod  of  gold. 


48  MOUNT    AUBURN. 

The  wild  white  lily  clothes  the  sloping  hill, 

The  feathery  brake  adorns  the  winding  rill, 

And  fair  pink  blossoms  'mid  soft  white  ones  grow, 

And  the  queen  lily  rules  the  waters'  flow. 

Yet  not  alone  do  wild  flowers  blossom  here, 

But  lovely  offerings  to  the  dead  appear. 

Where  the  departed  silently  repose, 

Affection's  hand  has  trained  the  gentle  rose  ; 

From  a  twined  arch  of  its  own  branches  wrought, 

Its  blooming  clusters  with  sweet  odors  fraught, 

I  saw  it  bend  above  a  sculptured  stone, 

Whereon  "  Maria  "  was  engraved  alone  ; 

Sweet  name,  Maria  !  though  I  knew  her  not, 

Still  did  I  linger  round  the  quiet  spot, 

And  deemed  that  simple  name  oft  said,  "  Forget  me  not." 

And  many  flowers  of  varied  hue  are  there, 

Which  kind  hands  nurture  with  a  tender  care. 

How  beautiful  to  light  the  sombre  gloom,  — 

With  flowers  and  garlands  to  enwreath  the  tomb ! 

The  spirit  of  mankind,  throughout  all  time, 

In  many  a  land,  in  many  a  varied  clime, 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  49 

Has  thus,  by  tender,  holy  feelings  led, 

Brought  these  pure,  lovely  tributes  to  the  dead  ; 

They  tell  of  true,  of  deathless  sympathy, 

Of  chords  of  love  too  strong  to  severed  be. 

When  death  has  laid  his  stern,  resistless  hand 

Upon  a  son  of  Afric's  distant  la^nd, 

And  earth  has  taken  back  the  silent  frame 

Unto  the  lowly  dust  from  whence  it  came, 

The  humble  grave  a  shrub  is  planted  o'er,  t '.'.••'•* 

And  this  is  sacred  held  for  evermore  ; 

From  it  the  stranger's"  hand  must  take  no  leaf, 

Or  even  touch  this  symbol  of  their  grief. 

The  Egyptian  people,  twice  within  the  week, 

The  graves  of  their  lost  friends  and  kindred  seek, 

And  strew  sweet  basil  on  the  sacred  ground, 

To  shed  its  odors  on  the  air  around. 

In  Schwytz  *  they  plant  the  pink  ;  in  Germany  t 

Perennial  shrubs  and  lovely  flowers  we  see, 

And  garlands  hung  on  tombs,  and  water-vases 

For  the  sweet  blossoms  ;  making  pleasant  places 

*  In  Switzerland.  t  In  Wirfln  in  Germany. 

4  k 


50  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

r 

Where  still,  though  many  years  have  come  and  fled, 

The  living  tenderly  recall  the  dead. 

In  Wales,  the  snow-drop  and  the  violet 

On  innocent  childhood's  little  graves  are  set  ; 

Where  the  benevolent  and  good  repose, 

Cluster  the  blossoms  of  .the  rich  red  rose. 

Beautiful  customs  !  long  may  they  prevail ; 

For,  when  this  sacred  tenderness  shall  fail, 

And  give  to  cold  and  rude  neglect  a  place, 

There  folly,  vice,  and  guilt  our  eyes  will  trace. 

Long  years  ago,  ere  art  with  plastic  hand 
Had  changed  the  aspect  of  this  lovely  land, 
In  a  lone,  silent  spot,  all  rude  and  wild,      /  ^ :  - 
Within  its  grave  was  laid  a  nameless  child  ; 
Over  its  ill-starred  form,  in  grief  and  fear,    • 
Scarce  did  its  mother  pause  to  shed  a  tear, 
But  laid  the  green  sod  on  the  unconscious  dead, 
And  with  one  glance  of  anguish  trembling  fled. 
And  since  with  sacred  rites  these  shades  were  blest, 
And  consecrated  as  a  place  of  rest, 
There  have  some  unnamed,  new-made  graves  been  found, 
Stolen  by  pious  fraud  in  holy  ground. 


. 

MOUNT   AUBURN.  51 

But  the  first  sleeper,  whose  much  honored  dust 
This  sacred  earth  now  holds  in  solemn  trust, 
Was  one  in  reverence  held,  one  whose  bright  name 
Homage  for  worth,  for  intellect  could  claim  ; 
Let  prating  fools  of  sex  and  weakness  cant, 
And  dream  there  's  wisdom  in  their  idle  rant ; 
The  truly  great,  wherever  they  may  find, 
Will  bend  before,  the  majesty  of  mind  ; 
And  woman  did  thee  justice,  when  she  gave 
The  monument  that  stands  above  thy  grave, 
Bright  evening  star,*  among  the  first  that  rose, 
Where  now  a  brilliant  constellation  glows, 
Whose  light  is  sparkling  with  effulgence  clear, 
And  beaming  o'er  our  Western  Hemisphere. 

'T  was  a  due  honor,  Spurzheim  !  to  thy  worth, 
Classic  sarcophagus  and  holy  earth, 
No  place  could  be  more  beautiful,  and  none 
A  better  land,  thy  native  land  alone; 
Philosopher  !  to  whom  our  country  gave 
Many  hearts'  love,  but,  O  !  an  early  grave. 

*  Miss  Hannah  Adams. 


52  MOUNT    AUBURN. 

Beautiful  are  the  winding  path-ways  made 
Around  the  hills,  and  in  the  cool,  green  glade ; 
Fair  are  their  vistas  opening  to  the  view, 
Their  sylvan  names  are  soft  and  pleasant,  too  ; 
Peaceful  and  calm  the  sleeper  may  rest  well 
In  the  cool  shades  of  Consecration  Dell. 
On  the  green  hill-side,  waving  o'er  the  tombs, 
The  feathery  brake  nods  its  long  tufied  plumes ; 
The  solemn  wind-swept  pines,  like  ocean's  surge, 
Breathe  from  their  hearts  a  melancholy  dirge  ; 
Silent  and  still  the  water  sleeps  serene, 
Its  surface  covered  with  the  polished  green 
Of  a  most  delicate  plant,  that  o'er  it  weaves 
A  glossy  mantle  of  the  finest  leaves. 
Upon  this  sloping  hill-side  there  sleeps  one, 
For  blameless  purity  of  life  long  known, 
For  duties  well  fulfilled,  a  life  well  spent, 
And  a  true  heart,  kind  and  benevolent  ; 
Strangers  may  need  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot, 
By  those  who  knew  thee,  Bradlee,  unforgot ! 

Up  to  the  summit  of  that  highest  hill 
Oft  do  my  weary  footsteps  wander  still : 


MOUNT  AUBURN.  53 

But,  ah  !  more  toilsome  seems  the  steep  ascent, 

Than  when  my  childhood's  bounding  footsteps  went, 

With  careless  speed,  up  the  green  sloping  way, 

In  the  cool  morning  of  the  summer  day  ! 

Then  my  gay  steps  were  by  a  light  heart  led  ; 

Then  in  these  quiet  shades  there  slept  no  dead  ! 

With  heavier  heart,  and  with  a  footstep  slow, 

To  that  well-loved,  remembered  scene  I  go  ; 

For  there,  away  from  the  world's  weary  strife, 

Far  from  the  turmoil,  the  rude  jars  of  life, 

Where  woven  boughs  cast  a  cool  shadow  deep, 

Calmly  reposes  in  a  dreamless  sleep 

One  to  whose  grave  in  sadness  I  draw  near, 

And  o'er  his  ashes  shed  the  filial  tear. 

In  life  he  loved  the  calm  seclusion  well, 

And  often  mused  and  wandered  through  each  dell, 

And  through  the  Walnut  grove,  and  up  the  Hill, 

And  o'er  the  Ridge,  and  found  new  beauty  still. 

The  wandering  footstej)  here  finds  every  place 
Full  of  calm  beauty  and  of  quiet  grace  ; 
In  the  bright  morn's  or  evening's  golden  light, 
Or,  as  more  near  advance  the  shades  of  night, 


54  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

When  all  the  tree-tops  bathed  in  splendor  glow, 

And  a  deep  shadow  rests  on  all  below  ; 

Or  as,  like  golden  bars,  the  struggling  rays 

Pierce  through  the  fretted  leaves'  entwining  maze, 

As  Forest  pond,  that,  sleeping  tranquilly, 

From  its  clear  depths  gives  back  each  leaf  and  tree, 

Each  tomb,  each  monument  that  's  mirrored  there 

So  perfect,  the  blue  fields  of  upper  air,  — 

The  o'erwrought  heart  exclaims,  "  O,  how  unearthly 

fair !  " 

Upon  the  margin  of  this  water  sleep 
Those  for  whom  many  eyes  will  often  weep ; 
Yon  graceful  pillar  marks  the  place  where  rest 
Children,  the  beautiful,  beloved,  and  blessed  ! 
Standing  in  the  high  places  of  the  earth, 
While  every  voice  pays  homage  to  his  worth, 
While  honor  crowns  him  with  a  fadeless  wreath, 
While  fame  is  his  beyond  the  power  of  death,  — 
Oft  must  the  father  *  turn  from  these  away 
To  where  the  early  lost,  the  loved  ones  lay  : 
The  little  ones,  whose  voices,  hushed  and  still, 
His  ear  no  more  with  their  sweet  music  fill. 

. ''  :  *  Judge  Story. 


MOUNT    AUBURN. 

And  she,  the  loveliest,  like  a  child  of  Heaven, 
Unto  his  heart  a  few  brief  summers  given,  — 
She  was  so  fair,  so  passing  beautiful, 
The  heart  that  loved  her  not  were  dead  and  dull ! 
No  eye  so  cold,  that  did  not  feel  more  blest, 
But  for  a  moment  on  her  form  to  rest; 
Even  to  my  childish  fancy  she  did  seem 
The  embodiment  of  some  exquisite  dream. 
Tears  that  from  parents'  eyes  alone  can  flow, 
Grief  that  a  parent's  heart  can  only  know, 
Even  words  like  his  but  feebly,  faintly  tell,  — 
"  Louisa,  darling  child,  farewell,  farewell !  " 

"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,"  is  written  where 
The  monument  to  Wetmore  rises  fair. 
"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart !  "  to  them  is  given, 
Our  Saviour  says,  "  to  see  the  God  of  Heaven." 

On  yonder  shaft,  those  blessed  words  impart 
Sweet  consolation  to  the  mourner's  heart ; 
"  Suis  et  sibi  "  ;  truly  may  it  be 
The  entrance  into  immortality. 


MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Pause  at  this  broken  shaft  *  a  moment's  space, 
Admire  its  beauty  and  its  quiet  grace  ; 
That  branch  of  roses  beautifully  wrought 
Is  with  a  deep  and  tender  meaning  fraught ; 
The  branch  is  broken,  and  the  fallen  rose 
And  its  sweet  buds  a  story  sad  disclose : 
"  Unto  my  wife  and  children,"  —  simple,  brief, 
The  touching,  heartfelt  eloquence  of  grief! 

The  tomb  that  rises  Durgin's  form  above 
Is  a  memorial  of  his  pupils'  love. 
The  shaft  of  black  and  polished  marble  near, 
Bearing  a  cross  upon  its  surface  clear, 
Is  beautiful,  yet  simple  and  severe.! 

And  thou,|  whose  earnest,  ever  active  mind 
This  home  of  the  departed  first  designed  ; 
Whose  manly  form  is  sleeping  'neath  the  sod, 
Where  oft  in  happy  days  thy  footsteps  trod ; 
This  was  thy  favorite  walk ;  this  sylvan  scene 
Thy  loved  retreat ;  o'er  yonder  rude  ravine 


*  The  monument  of  John  Tappan. 
f  Monument  of  Samuel  G.  Williams.  +  George  W.  Brimmer. 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  57 

Sprang  the  light  bridge  at  thy  command  ;  and  thou, 

'Neath  the  cool  shade  of  overarching  bough 

Pausing,  wouldst  muse  upon  life's  varied  show, 

Its  hurrying  tumult,  and  its  fevered  glow, 

Passion  and  strife,  —  the  wild  and  eager  race, 

Where  shadowy  phantoms  mock  the  headlong  chase, 

Its  rushing  tide  whose  murmurs  never  cease,  — 

And  haply  then,  while  bathed  in  the  deep  peace 

That  like  an  atmosphere  around  thee  spread, 

And  influence  benign  upon  thee  shed, 

Haply  thy  spirit  felt  the  calm  repose 

Had  beautiful  accordance  with  life's  close, 

And  felt  how  meet  it  was,  that,  when  the  frame, 

Should  to  the  earth  return  from  whence  it  came, 

In  sacred  stillness,  holy,  quiet,  deep, 

It  should  repose  in  the  last  solemn  sleep, 

Where  the  soft  breeze  should  blow,  the  green  boughs 

wave,  , 

And  early  flowerets  smile  upon  the  grave. 
'T  was  well  fulfilled,  —  the  purpose  of  thy  heart, 
Ere  thou  wert  called  from  earthly  scenes  to  part, 
And  leave  the  useful,  high  and  honored  sphere, 
Which  well  and  faithfully  thou  fill'dst  while  here. 


58  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Years  will  roll  on,  and  those  who  mourn  for  thee 
Unto  their  absent  one  shall  gathered  be, 
They  who  in  life  have  won  them  high  renown 
Near  thee  in  peaceful  silence  shall  lie  down  ; 
With  thine  inwoven  was  their  life's  bright  thread,  — 
The  same  green  turf  shall  lie  above  the  dead. 

Ah !  when  upon  the  Ridge  I  thoughtless  strayed, 
When  in  yon  hollow  deep  I  careless  played, 
And,  climbing  up  its  rough  and  tangled  side, 
Gazed  downward  with  an  eye  of  conscious  pride 
At  my  own  daring,  then  thought  could  not  trace 
The  change  that  came  upon  this  pleasant  place. 
Now  round  me  lie  within  the  quiet  grave 
How  many  who  to  life  new  lustre  gave, 
Who  breathe  from  marble  shrine,  or  granite  tomb, 
"  Such,  O  proud  man !  shall  be  thy  speedy  doom  !  " 
Here,  where  I  stand,  and  with  a  mournful  gaze 
Look  back  upon  the  past  and  pleasant  days, 
In  the  brief  vista  of  late  years  is  seen 
A  youthful  form  of  proud  and  noble  mien  : 
In  his  dark  eye  sits  visibly  enshrined, 
And  on  his  brow,  the  glorious  light  of  mind  ; 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  59 

And  listening  multitudes,  that  gather  near, 
Believe  that  Shakspeare's  very  self  they  hear. 
Mute  is  that  voice  of  eloquence !  that  eye  is  sealed 
Whose  glorious  light  the  spirit-depths  revealed. 
O  youth  !  O  genius  !  in  thy  loftiest  flight 
Sudden  around  thee  closed  the  shades  of  night ; 
Low  at  my  very  feet  thou  liest  now, 
The  cold  earth  pressed  upon  thy  colder  brow.* 
And  het  beside  thee  sleeps,  whose  judgment  clear 
Just  cause  the  evil-doer  had  to  fear; 
Whose  life,  in  usefulness  and  honor  passed, 
Shone  with  pure  brightness  even  to  the  last. 
As  the  flowers,  springing  from  your  lowly  bed, 
Their  grateful  perfume  all  around  them  shed, 
So  does  the  memory  of  your  truth  and  worth 
Breathe  its  sweet  influence  still  upon  the  earth. 

A  few  more  steps  1  wander,  and  behold 
A  cenotaph,  whose  lines  deep  griefs  unfold, 
And  mark  love's  tribute  unto  memory, 
For  him  }  who  distant  sleeps  beneath  the  sea, 


*  W.  H.  Simmons.  f  Judge  Simmons. 

I  David  Patterson. 


MOUNT    AUBURN. 


But  yet  whose  virtues,  purity,  and  truth 

Won  bright  renown  and  love,  even  in  his  early  youth. 


Upon  that  day,  so  lovely  and  so  bright, 
When  sacred  ceremony,  solemn  rite 
Did  consecrate  this  place,  then  beauteous  there 
Stood  a  young  maiden,*  innocent  and  fair  ; 
Her  grace,  her  gentleness,  her  kind  heart  made 
Friends  from  whose  love  her  memory  cannot  fade. 
A  few  days  passed  away,  days  few  and  brief, 
To  all  who  knew  her  filled  with  deepest  grief, 
For  death  had  claimed  her,  —  and  the  loved  and  dear, 
Reposing  calmly,  rests  in  silence  here. 
Hers  was  an  angel  spirit ;  earth  could  fling 
No  stain,  no  shadow  on  that  seraph  wing ; 
Her  brilliant  path  with  lowly  heart  she  trod, 
And,  like  the  saints  of  old,  she  walked  with  God. 
To  her  death  came  not  in  his  terrors  clad, 
But  beautiful,  though  stern,  serene,  though  sad. 
Even  in  its  wanderings,  her  gentle  mind 
Ever  some  scene  of  loveliness  would  find  ; 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  61 

And  clothed  in  beauty,  wonderful  and  bright, 

What  would  be  fearful  to  a  less  pure  sight. 

Voices  of  music  softly  bade  her  come, 

And  oft  she  gently  sighed,  "  I  would  go  home  !  " 

Sweet  spirit !  there  is  harmony  divine 

In  a  life  pure  and  radiant  as  thine. 

Thou  art  gone  home !    Of  the  beloved,  whose  tears 

Mourned  the  brief  number  of  thy  golden  years, 

To  whose  fond  hearts  thou  wert  so  justly  dear, 

Many  have  joined  thee  in  that  happier  sphere  ; 

Yet  is  there  left  one  whose  undying  love 

Still  upward  gazes  to  the  world  above : 

Still  is  her  heart  thy  lost  love's  faithful  shrine  ; 

Still  does  her  spirit  commune  hold  with  thine ; 

Oft  has  she  drank  the  bitter  cup,  but  still 

She  bends  submissive  to  her  Father's  will. 

She  will  rejoin  her  loved,  after  few  years, 

Where  there  are  no  more  partings,  no  more  tears. 

Yon  granite  obelisk,*  that  riseth  high 
And  seemeth  pointing  upward  to  the  sky, 

*  Wyman  and  Howe. 


62  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Contains  a  world  of  love,  and  hope,  and  faith, 
In  the  one  word  that  's  written  underneath  : 
"  Resurgeinus !  "  O,  may  that  word  impart 
Courage  and  strength  to  every  fainting  heart ! 
And,  while  the  mourner  weeps  in  sorrowing  love, 
O,  may  he  look  beyond  the  world,  —  above  ! 

Approach  yon  pure  white  marble  cenotaph, 
And  read  the  brief  and  simple  epitaph ; 
For,  O !  how  much  that  little  line  unfolds, 
"  The  sea  his  body,  heaven  his  spirit  holds." 
If  many  a  token  of  esteem  and  love, 
By  which  kind  hearts  their  fond  affection  prove, 
If  poet's  line,  if  student's  glowing  page, 
If  a  true  sympathy,  may  e'er  assuage 
A  parent's  grief,  —  thine,  wholly  thine  are  these, 
Father  of  him  *  who  sleeps  beneath  the  restless  seas  ! 

Here  for  a  moment  let  the  wanderer  turn 
His  gaze,  where,  low  beneath  the  sculptured  urn, 
Two  brothers t  sleep;  in  youth's  bright  morning  hour 
Cut  down  as  grass,  and  fading  as  the  flower. 

*  E.  Buckingham.  t  Mason. 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  b3 

Around  their  path,  and  bright  upon  their  way, 
The  glowing  hopes  of  early  manhood  lay  ; 
When  the  glad  earth  with  all  her  joys  was  rife, 
They  left  it,  —  but  for  an  eternal  life. 

This  granite  temple  bears  an  honored  name,* 
To  many  dear,  and  not  unknown  to  fame. 

The  student  at  thy  cenotaph  will  pause, 
Ingenious  scholar  in  mechanic  laws  ; 
And  call  to  mind  the  knowledge  and  the  skill, 
That  raised  for  Colburn's  name  prouder  memorial  still. 
The  monument  of  stone  but  few  may  heed, 
The  page  of  wisdom  all  mankind  "may  read. 

Here  Cheever's  ancient  and  familiar  name 
Even  from  the  careless  may  some  notice  claim. 

The  Stranger's  Tomb  !     Ah,  with  what  saddening 

thought 
And  mournful  meaning  these  few  words  are  fraught ! 


64  MOUNT    AUBURN. 

They  speak  the  stranger  in  a  stranger  land, 

Far  from  his  country,  from  the  household  band 

Who  would  have  soothed  his  hours  of  weary  pain, 

And  almost  called  him  back  to  life  again  : 

There  greets  his  sight  no  dear,  remembered  place, 

His  last  glance  falls  on  no  familiar  face ; 

No  tearful  sister  stands  in  sorrow  by, 

No  gentle  mother's  hand  may  close  the  eye, 

Whose  earliest  look  of  love  beamed  on  her  own, 

No  dear  one  kiss  the  brow,  cold  as  the  marble  stone. 

O  stately  Harvard !  from  thy  classic  bounds, 
How  oft  have  wandered  to  these  shaded  grounds, 
Thy  youthful  sons  !   .Some  built  them  rustic  bowers 
Festooned  with  creepers  wild  and  clustering  flowers  ; 
Here  in  the  long  and  joyous  summer  day 
Lingered  o'er  sweet  romance,  or  poet's  lay, 
Filled  with  soft  music  all  the  dreamy  air  ; 
Or,  wandering  with  some  gentle  maiden  fair, 
With  the  enthusiasm  of  early  youth, 
Vowed  an  eternal  constancy  of  truth. 
Ah !  who  e'er  trod  his  Alma  Mater's  halls, 
Or  breathed  the  air  within  her  sacred  walls, 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  65 

That  did  not  love  Sweet  Auburn's  quiet  shades, 
Her  lonely  glens,  her  open,  sunny  glades  ? 
Whose  wandering  footstep  has  not  often  trod 
O'er  her  green  moss  and  flower-enamelled  sod, 
And  felt  the  soothing  influence  o'er  his  mind, 
And  all  his  feelings  softened  and  refined  ? 
And,  ah  !  how  many  in  their  riper  age, 
Whose  names  are  written  on  historic  page, 
To  die  not  till  our  country  too  shall  die, 
How  many  in  this  loved  seclusion  lie  ! 
How  many,  too,  life's  warfare  just  begun, 
Have  left  the  battle  strife  they  might  have  won, 
Have  bade  the  heart's  wild  clarion  music  cease, 
And,  listening  to  the  low,  soft  notes  of  peace, 
Through  the  dark  valley  of  death's  shadow  passed, 
And  found  repose  within  thy  shades  at  last ! 
And  those  whose  distant  dust  commingles  not 
With  consecrated  earth  in  this  blest  spot, 
Who  sleep  in  ocean,  or  in  other  lands, 
To  them  the  cenotaph,  by  gentle  hands 
Of  kindred,  or  of  friends  most  loved  and  dear, 
Or  mourning  classmates,  is  erected  here. 
5 


66  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Well  named  they  Harvard  Hill  this  rising  ground, 
For  Harvard's  sons  are  sleeping  all  around. 
Here  may  we  see  her  honored  Ashmun's  name, 
Who  waited  not  for  years  to  bring  him  fame, 
But  seized  the  prize,  and  won  the  noble  race, 
Ere  his  bright  youth  had  given  to  manhood  place ; 
At  his  Redeemer's  feet  he  laid  his  crown, 
And  passed  from  earth  in  all  his  young  renown. 
And  close  beside  him  resteth  one  *  endeared 
To  many  whom  he  hath  sustained  and  cheered, 
And  gently  guided  up  the  steep  ascent, 
Upon  whose  summit  their  regards  were  bent ; 
He  was  the  well-loved  guardian  of  youth, 
And  the  firm  friend  and  advocate  of  truth  ; 
Well  called  "  the  great,  the  learned,  and  the  good,' 
The  kind  of  heart,  the  generous  of  mood. 
The  youthful  patriot  won  his  laurel  crown 
Ere  sixteen  summers  o'er  his  head  had  flown  ; 
Yet  'mid  his  early  triumphs  called  to  mourn, 
He  bent  in  sorrow  o'er  the  funeral  urn 
Of  a  beloved  mother  ;  earth  could  give 
No  higher  pleasure  than  for  her  to  live; 

*  President  Kirkland. 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  67 

The  measure  of  his  after-joys  to  fill, 
One  greater  joy  was  ever  wanting  still. 
Proud  Harvard's  honored  chief  for  many  a  year, 
To  him  affection's  sigh,  and  sorrow's  tear, 
And  high  award  of  praise  were  given  from  hearts  sin- 
cere. 

Thou,*  too,  who  many  years  hast  held  the  sway 
O'er  fiery  youth,  that  little  loves  to  obey,  — 
Thou,  the  ripe  scholar,  with  deep  wisdom  crowned, 
The  honored,  the  revered,  the  high-renowned,  — 
Great  privilege  was  thine  ;  thou  didst  inherit 
The  lofty  virtues  of  that  noble  spirit, 
The  record  of  whose  life  thy  filial  hand 
Has  kindly  given  to  his  grateful  land. 
To  thee  are  length  of  years,  and  honors  rife, 
The  approving  smile  of  Heaven  upon  thy  life  : 
Long  may  it  be  ere  in  this  holy  ground 
The  record  of  thy  virtues  shall  be  found  ! 

How  beautiful  this  cross,  so  pure,  so  plain  ! 
Emblem  of  Him  who  died  and  rose  again  ; 

*  President  Quincy. 


68  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Holy  memorial  and  doubly  blest, 

Guarding  the  sleeper  in  his  quiet  rest, 

And  ever  pointing  upwards  unto  heaven, 

The  mourner's  hope,  from  earthly  idols  riven.* 

Yon  marble  from  Italia's  sunny  land, 
Rich  with  the  labor  of  the  sculptor's  hand ; 
A  temple  beautiful,  a  most  pure  shrine, 
Yet  on  its  snowy  surface  bears  no  line 
To  tell  the  loved  and  lost  are  resting  there,  — 
Long  may  it  be  ere  it  such  record  bear !  t 

Here  rests  a  Stanton ;  here  a  Murray  sleeps  ; 
And  where  the  twining  vine  still  upward  creeps, 
And,  as  its  sweet  perfume  around  it  throws, 
Mingles  its  blossoms  with  the  climbing  rose, 
Lies  one  in  all  the  beauty  of  her  youth, 
In  all  the  innocence  of  love  and  truth, 
Called  to  leave  all  most  dear  to  her  young  heart, 
And  from  the  fairest  scenes  of  earth  to  part. 


*  S.  Swell's  monumeni. 

t  The  monumeni  belonging  lo  8.  Applelon. 


MOUNT   AUBURN.  69 

And  he,*  whose  love  was  so  devoted,  deep, 
It  could  not  die  with  her,  it  could  not  sleep, 
But  yet  more  strong  and  more  intense  it  grew, 
Till  the  grave's  portals  for  him  opened  too,  — 
With  his  two  lovely  boys,  still  day  by  day, 
Unto  her  grave  he  took  his  sorrowing  way  ; 
His  gentle  hands  formed  overarching  bowers, 
And  tenderly  he  reared  the  scented  flowers  ; 
He  waited  but  one  offering  to  give 
To  science  and  his  country,  which  will  live 
While  they  shall  live,  then  his  freed  spirit  bright 
Plumed  its  glad  wings,  and  took  its  heavenly  flight. 

A  Curtis,  name  to  valor  justly  dear, 
And  Worcester,  "  Friend  of  peace,"  are  resting  here  ; 
A  Stearns,  a  Fessenden,  —  these  names  recall 
Virtues  and  genius  known  and  loved  by  all ; 

Learning  and  wisdom,  and  the  noble  deed, 

% 
And  the  true  heart,  —  they  have  received  their  meed. 

A  few  brief  summers  o'er  the  head  had  rolled 
Of  one  who  sleeps  beneath  this  marble  cold  ; 

*  F.  P.  Leverett. 


70  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Behold  engraved  hereon  the  maiden  name 

Of  one  whose  sufferings  a  tear  may  claim. 

O,  tenderly  regard  the  sacred  dust 

Which  these  calm  shades  now  hold  in  solemn  trust ! 

Young  and  beloved,  the  fair  and  youthful  bride 

Leaned  on  a  broken  reed  that  pierced  her  side  ; 

O,  how  could  he,  who  vowed  through  life  to  love, 

So  false  and  faithless  to  his  promise  prove  ? 

How  could  he  wring  the  broken  heart  with  pain. 

Till  death  was  mercy  and  the  grave  was  gain  1 

Yes,  death  to  thee  was  but  a  blest  release ; 

Rest  thee,  sweet  sufferer,  rest  thee  here  in  peace ! 

But,  for  the  wretch  whose  name  thou  wouldst  not  have, 

To  fling  dishonor  on  thy  early  grave, 

For  him  let  deep  remorse  its  torments  keep, 

Let  not  for  him  the  fires  of  vengeance  sleep, 

But  let  the  finger  of  contempt  and  scorn 

Mark  even  the  ashes  in  his  funeral  urn  ! 

The  wandering  vine  extends  its  scented  bloom, 
The  weeping  willow  droops  above  the  tomb, 
Where  sleeps  the  true,  the  pious,  and  the  young,  — 
Thy  praise,  McLellan !  often  has  been  sung; 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  71 

Called  early  from  thy  ministry  of  love 

To  more  enduring  scenes  in  realms  above. 

Young  soldier  of  the  cross  !  thy  memory 

Dear  to  the  hearts  of  many  long  will  be  ; 

And  oft  thy  well  loved  friends  will  pause  to  weep, 

Where  thou  art  lying  in  thy  "  long,  cold  sleep." 

Upon  this  monument  another  name,* 
A  warrior's,  too,  some  thought  may  justly  claim, 
For,  brave  among  his  country's  brave  ones  found, 
His  was  an  early  death  upon  the  battle-ground. 

Placed  by  fond  hearts,  and  by  fraternal  hands, 
This  offering  of  sincere  affection  stands ; 
It  tells  of  one/f  true-souled,  pure,  and  refined,. 
Of  gentle  nature,  of  a  lofty  mind, 
The  classic  scholar,  preacher  of  the  word, 
And  faithful  follower  of  the  ascended  Lord. 
Far  from  his  home  he  closed  his  brief  career, 
Far  from  the  hearts  that  loved  and  held  him  dear. 
A  brief,  bright  space  he  to  the  earth  was  given, 
Then  summoned  home,  that  blessed  home  in  heaven. 

*  Hull.  t  Rev.  8.  Stearns. 


72  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Thou  who  with  restless  feet  art  hastening  by, 
Whose  bounding  heart  is  light,  whose  hope  is  high, 
Who  cannot  dream  of  death,  e'en  'mid  the  dead, 
Here  let  thy  course  be  for  a  moment  stayed  ; 
Bend,  humbly  bend  before  this  lowly  shrine,* 
And  read  with  reverence  the  sacred  line, 
Learn  from  the  words  that  here  arrest  thine  eye, 
"  Who  liveth  and  believeth  cannot  die." 
Believest  thou  in  Him  who  came  to  save 
From  the  dark  terrors  of  the  sinner's  grave  1 
If  thou  believest  not,  turn  not  away, 
But  bow  thy  forehead  to  the  dust  and  pray, 
That  He,  who  breathed  into  thy  form  life's  breath, 
May  save  thee  from  the  fearful  second  death. 
Make  thou  thine  own  the  sacred  promise  sure  ; 
'T  is  God's  own  word,  and  therefore  must  endure. 

Beneath  this  lofty  oak,  whose  branches  throw 
A  softened  shade  upon  the  marble's  glow, 
Reposes  one  t  who  lived  yon  city's  pride, 
Then,  full  of  years  and  honors,  gently  died. 

*  F.  T.  Gray's  monument.  t  Jesse  Putnam. 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  73 

Here  sleeps  beside  him  one  whose  lengthened  life 
(For  more  than  sixty  years  a  faithful  wife) 
Saw  her  her  varied  duties  well  fulfil, 
Not  seeking  for  her  own,  but  for  her  Father's  will. 

How  I  have  loved,  in  some  sequestered  place, 
Seated  upon  some  monument's  broad  base, 
Silent,  alone,  to  meditate  and  muse, 
And  many  an  hour  in  reverie  to  lose  ; 
To  watch  the  struggling  light,  through  leafy  wood, 
Or  through  some  opening,  pour  its  golden  flood  ! 
A  dreamy  stillness  reigned  throughout  the  shade ; 
The  soft,  green  leaves  a  whispering  music  made, 
While,  answering  sweet  to  the  low  harmony, 
The  rippling  waters  murmured  gently  by  ; 
The  light  and  wandering  air  was  softly  stirred 
By  the  sweet  song  of  many  a  summer  bird, 
Or  by  the  frolic  race  and  chattering 
Of  the  lithe  squirrel  in  his  daring  spring ; 
Little  he  recks,  the  sportive  wild  and  free, 
Of  suffering,  sorrowing  humanity, 
And  with  his  former  light  and  careless  bound 
Springs  o'er  the  monuments  of  holy  ground  : 


74  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

Disturb  him  not  with  threats  or  rude  alarm  ; 

Let  him  be  happy,  thee  he  may  not  harm ; 

As  Nature  made  him  innocently  gay, 

Why  shouldst  thou  take  his  little  life  away  ? 

Less  pleasant  sounds  the  stillness  sometimes  broke, 

The  workman's  whistle,  or  the  hammer's  stroke  ; 

Or  some  discordant  voice,  rough,  harsh,  and  rude, 

Disturbed  the  calm  and  sacred  solitude. 

And  I  have  wandered  far  from  these  away, 

Through  sombre  paths,  where  scarce  the  light  of  day 

Might  penetrate,  until  at  length  I  came 

To  where  some  sleeper  reverend  thought  might  claim. 

In  Cypress  Avenue,  where  many  a  place 

Of  taste,  and  art,  and  elegance  bears  trace, 

I  often  pause  to  admire  the  inclosure  there, 

Made  by  four  brothers,*  —  beautiful  and  fair, 

Where  many  blossoms  shed  their  sweets  around, 

And,  dropping  perfume,  bend  towards  the  ground. 

"  That  youthful  marvel,"  who  too  early  died,  — 
Hope  of  the  church,  its  ornament  and  pride, 

*  The  Lawrences. 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  75 

"  Full  of  all  studies,"  modest,  zealous,  wise,  — 
His  mortal  dust  here  still  and  silent  lies  ; 
His  spirit  lives  immortal,  and  the  earth 
Long  shall  bear  witness  to  his  truth  and  worth.* 

And  where  thou  sleepest,  silent  and  alone, 
Mine  aged  friend  !  t  beneath  the  sculptured  stone, 
Fain  would  my  heart  some  grateful  offering  lay 
Upon  thy  shrine,  some  feeble  tribute  pay 
Unto  thy  memory ;  for,  in  days  long  gone, 
Much  gentle  kindness  unto  me  was  shown. 
Slight  was  the  offering  then  within  my  power, 
The  blooming  bud,  the  faintly  fragrant  flower; 
And  thou  wert  pleased,  for  thou  didst  love  them  still, 
Beauteous  and  pure,  with  love  age  could  not  chill, 
Nor  even  death  ;  for,  on  that  morn  of  May, 
When  with  full  heart  I  silent  turned  away, 
(They  told  me  thou  wert  dying,)  then,  the  while, 
Thy  dim  eye  kindled,  and,  with  pleasant  smile, 
Thou  welcomed,  as  in  happy  days  gone  past, 
My  first  spring  offering,  and,  ah  me !  my  last. 

*  J.  S.  Buckminster.  t  Mrs.  Cragie. 


76  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

There  is  a  flower,  I  oft  have  heard  thee  tell, 

Whose  strange,  peculiar  beauty  pleased  thee  well : 

It  lifts  its  delicate,  pale,  fragile  stem, 

Clasped  with  white  leaves,  and,  like  an  anadem, 

Sprinkled  with  black  its  white  flowers  crown  its  head, 

As  't  were  a  gentle  mourner  for  the  dead ; 

For  ever  may  it  grow,  as  now  it  grows, 

On  the  spot  sacred  to  thy  last  repose  ! 

Many  have  missed  thee ;  many  hearts  are  sad, 

Thy  tones  of  tenderness  full  oft  made  glad  ; 

Thy  warm  affections  slumbered  not,  nor  slept, 

Thy  kindness  in  no  sluggish  current  crept  ; 

Chill,  frosty  age  aimed  one  ice-pointed  dart, 

'T  was  melted  in  the  sunshine  of  thy  heart. 

All  were  thy  friends,  for  thou  wert  friend  to  all ; 

Never  unanswered  was  the  faintest  call 

Upon  thy  sympathy,  which  still  could  see, 

He  is  my  neighbour,  who  has  need  of  me. 

But  though  before  thy  tomb  I  sorrowing  bend, 

I  would  not  call  thee  back,  my  own  kind  friend  ! 

Be  o'er  the  dust  a  "  requiescat"  said  ; 

Joy  to  the  happy  spirit  heavenward  fled  ! 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  77 

With  sculpture  rich,  where'er  the  eye  may  turn, 
Rise  cenotaph,  sarcophagus,  and  urn. 
The  broken  shaft,  the  oak-leaf  garland  bound, 
And  olive  wreaths,  the  monuments  around, 
The  inverted  torch  down-drooping  mournfully, 
The  kindled  flame  to  heaven  ascending  high, 
The  serpent,  emblem  of  eternity, 
The  words  of  hope  and  faith  so  sadly  sweet, 
That  everywhere  the  wandering  vision  greet, 
And  the  departed  in  these  shades  who  dwell,  — 
Both  time  and  space  of  these  would  fail  to  tell. 
Yet  pause  we  here,  where,  if  the  sculptor's  art 
May  ever  soothe  the  mourner's  sorrowing  heart, 
It  may  console  the  friends  who  weep  for  thee, 
Young,  innocent,  and  gentle  Emily  !  * 
We  stand  beside  thy  couch,  to  hear  thy  breath 
We  almost  pause  ;  and  is  it  sleep  or  death, 
The  cunning  hand  of  art  would  seek  to  trace 
On  the  calm  features  of  thy  placid  face  ? 
Through  the  oak's  purple  leaves  a  radiant  light 
Cheats  for  a  moment  the  bewildered  sight, 

*  Emily  Binney. 


78  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

And,  bathed  in  rosy  hues,  upon  the  snow 
Of  thy  fair  cheek  there  rests  a  crimson  glow ; 
So  still,  so  gentle  thy  repose,  and  deep, 
We  almost  fear  to  wake  thee  from  that  sleep  : 
Alas  !  thy  slumber  is  too  deep,  too  still! 
'T  is  death  that  on  thy  brow  has  set  his  seal. 
The  loved  of  many,  scarce,  with  merry  feet 
Bounding  along  life's  pathway,  didst  thou  greet 
The  looks  of  earnest  love  that  watched  the  while 
Lest  thy  young  spirit  learn  the  world's  deep  guile. 
While  thy  glad  heart  with  love  beat  gay  and  light, 
While  thine  eye  beamed  with  ever  new  delight, 
While  thy  sweet  voice  even  as  a  free  wild  bird 
Warbling  glad  music  evermore  was  heard,  — 
Then  came  the  Reaper,  in  that  joyous  time, 
And  claimed  the  flower  to  grace  a  fairer  clime; 
Then  thy  light  foot  fell  wearily  and  slow, 
Then  thy  sweet  voice  was  heard  in  moanings  low, 
Soon  thy  bright  eye  grew  dim,  faint,  faint  thy  breath, 
And  thy  young  voice  was  hushed  and  still  in  death. 
Rest  thee  in  peace,  beloved  one !  till  the  light 
Of  that  last  morn  shall  break  the  shades  of  night, 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  7» 

Till  the  Archangel's  trump,  with  summons  dread, 
Shall  bid  the  earth  and  seas  give  up  their  dead. 

Peace  to  thy  shades,  Mount  Auburn  !  peace  to  those, 
Who,  free  from  earth  and  all  its  cares,  repose ! 
Well  may  we  call  thee  beautiful,  and  well 
Pause  with  delight  upon  the  theme  to  dwell ; 
For  children,  dying,  oft  have  earnest  prayed 
That  they  might  sleep  beneath  thy  holy  shade. 
Thou  ever  beautiful !  at  morning's  hour, 
When  the  first  joyous  rays  wake  the  young  flower, 
When  the  bees  hasten  on  their  gauzy  wings, 
And  fill  the  air  with  busy  murmurings, 
While,  idly  sleeping  on  the  bright  flower's  breast, 
The  golden  butterfly  is  yet  at  rest ; 
When  the  soft  moss,  with  its  bright  emerald  hue, 
Flashes  and  gleams  with  pearl  and  silver  dew  ; 
When  the  sweet  matin  song  of  birds  is  heard 
From  thy  green  coverts  ;  when,  by  light  winds  stirred, 
The  delicate  birch-leaves  flutter  soft  and  low, 
And  the  cool  waters  in  the  sunshine  glow 
With  a  faint  gleaming  light;  when  peaceful  love 
Is  brooding  o'er  thee  as  a  heavenly  dove,  — 


80  MOUNT    AUBURN. 

Then  the  soul,  flinging  earthly  trammels  by, 
Soars  in  its  upward  flight  towards  infinity. 

Beautiful  thou,  when  autumn  suns  are  low, 
And  all  thy  gorgeous  robes  in  splendor  glow, 
When  through  the  hemlock's  dark  and  sombre  hue, 
And  the  deep  green  of  oaks  and  maples  through, 
The  sumach's  fiery  flame  in  splendor  shines, 
And  gleam  like  warriors'  spears  the  glittering  pines, 
And  deeper  yet  the  mournful  cypress  weaves 
The  shadowy  gloom  of  darkly  clustering  leaves, 
And  birch-trees'  golden  leaves  and  silvery  bark 
Gleam  'mid  the  poplars'  crimson  deep  and  dark. 
On  the  brown  pine-leaves  thickly  strown  around, 
Soft  is  the  footing,  but  uncertain  found  ; 
The  dusky  ash  lifts  its  gray  arms  on  high, 
The  silver  birch  nods  to  the  passers  by, 
And  flutters  hastily  its  fairy  dress, 
In  sportive  and  coquettish  loveliness. 
Amid  the  glowing  leaves  on  sprig  or  spray, 
Gleams  the  rich  plumage  of  the  harsh-toned  jay  ; 
While  soft  and  low,  in  plaintive  cadence  heard, 
Comes  the  last  parting  song  of  summer  bird, 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  81 

As  if  it  poured  its  very  heart  away 

In  the  bewildering  sweetness  of  that  lay. 

All  through  the  atmosphere,  a  faint,  warm  haze 

Gives  a  mild  radiance  to  the  sun's  broad  rays; 

In  delicate  lines  of  silver  tracery, 

Floats  the  light  gossamer  from  tree  to  tree  ; 

The  rustling  leaf  abroad  its  banner  flings, 

To  woo  the  wandering  zephyr's  sportive  wings : 

The  downy  seed  goes  floating  idly  on, 

And  one  by  one  the  ripened  nuts  drop  down. 

Then  a  calm  gladness  fills  the  musing  mind, 

A  heavenfy  joy  from  all  excess  refined, 

A  strain  of  pensiveness  not  melancholy, 

A  joy  subdued  and  free  from  earthly  folly. 

When  the  light  robes  of  silver  mist  enfold 
Thy  graceful  height,  when  sunset  clouds  of  gold 
Hover  above  thee,  as  if  angels'  wings 
Paused  on  their  message  from  the  King  of  kings, 
To  shed  the  radiance  of  celestial  light 
O'er  the  dark  portals  of  the  grave's  deep  night, 
Then  more  than  ever  beautiful  art  thou, 
The  heavenly  halo  round  thy  glorious  brow. 


82  MOUNT   AUBURN. 

And  thou  wert  beautiful  that  sacred  day, 
When  the  wild  storm-cloud  dark  above  thee  lay, 
And  from  its  depths  the  lightning's  vivid  flash 
Leaped  forth  amid  the  thunder's  heavy  crash  : 
From  thy  deep  shades  an  answering  tone  was  heard, 
By  martial  music  sad  thy  heart  was  stirred  ; 
A  gallant  band,  in  warlike,  proud  array, 
Went  slowly  moving  on  their  solemn  way, 
And  through  thy  winding  paths  and  coverts  deep 
They  bore  the  soldier*  to  his  place  of  sleep ; 
The  volleyed  peal  above  his  narrow  bed 
Was  faintly  heard  'mid  heaven's  artillery  dread. 
Soft  may  he  sleep,  —  the  loyal  and  the  brave, — 
Soft  may  he  sleep  within  his  honored  grave ! 
The  weight  of  many  years  was  laid  on  him, 
But  yet  the  holy  fire  grew  never  dim 
On  his  heart's  living  altar ;  high  above 
All  cares  of  earth  rose  that  pure  flame  of  love, 
And  led  him  with  a  strong,  resistless  sway 
To  join  the  multitude  upon  that  day,t 

*  Captain  Josiah  Cleaveland  died  June  30th,  1843.  aged  90. 
t  June  17th,  1843. 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  8J 

When,  like  the  sands  upon  the  sea-shore  found, 
Yon  lofty  monument  they  gathered  round. 
Once  had  he  stood  there  at  his  country's  call, 
And  seen  her  gallant  sons  around  him  fall, 
When  valor's  heart  was  in  the  conflict  tried, 
Each  man  a  hero  on  that  day  who  died. 
Now  when  the  work  was  finished,  and  through  time 
Should  still  bear  witness  of  those  deeds  sublime, 
Again  upon  that  glorious  ground  he  stood, 
And  saw  with  kindling  eye  that  all  was  good. 
Too  much,  too  much  of  joy !  his  heart  beat  high 
In  raptured  ecstasy,  then  sank,  to  die ! 
Brave  warrior  on  the  battle-field  of  strife ! 
Brave  soldier  in  the  Christian's  conflict,  —  life ! 
Yet  shall  fair  childhood  to  thy  grave  draw  near, 
Lessons  of  wisdom  from  the  old  to  hear, 
And  learn  from  him  who  sleeps  beneath  the  sod, 
How  they  may  serve  their  country  and  their  God. 

Cleaveland  !  with  thee  methought  the  line  to  close, 
And  from  my  pleasant  labors  to  repose. 


84  MOUNT    AUBURN. 

But  ere  1  close  the  sad,  funereal  strain, 

Again  "  deep  calleth  unto  deep !  "  again 

The  fiat  is  sent  forth,  that  summons  high 

From  whose  dread  messenger  no  man  may  fly. 

The  solemn  dirge-note  and  the  mournful  wail 

Have  scarcely  ceased  to  swell  upon  the  gale, 

Ere  like  the  voice  of  Echo  they  return 

From  desolate  homes  where  the  heart-stricken  mourn. 

The  wise,  the  great,  the  noble,  and  the  good, 

Genius,  the  lofty  soul,  the  mild  of  mood, 

All  suddenly,  while  life  the  brightest  shone, 

Received  that  mandate  from  the  Eternal  One, 

Were  quenched  like  brilliant  stars  from  the  blue  heaven, 

But  O,  a  higher  life,  a  nobler  sphere,  was  given  ! 

A  feeble  tribute  let  me  pay  to  one  * 
Whose  life  of  love  is  past,  whose  race  is  run. 
His  sweet  and  solemn  voice  shall  never  more 
Lift  up  its  melody  on  earth,  shall  never  pour 
On  mortal  ears  its  low  and  pleading  tone, 
Or  rise  in  prayer  to  the  Eternal's  throne. 

*  Rev.  Henry  Ware. 


MOUNT    AUBURN. 


Like  clustering  stars  did  his  rare  virtues  shine, 

And  round  him  shed  a  heavenly  light  divine. 

He  swept  with  master-hand  the  poet's  lyre, 

The  thrilling  chords  sent  forth  ethereal  fire. 

His  searching  eye  gazed  through  the  heavens  afar, 

And  traced  the  pathway  of  each  golden  star,- 

And  felt  the  heavens  declared  the  glory  high 

Of  God's  eternal,  infinite  majesty. 

He  looked  on  earth  with  countless  beings  rife, 

The  endless  myriad  forms  of  varied  life, 

And  knew  them  made  by  one  Almighty  hand, 

Which  pours  its  blessings  over  every  land. 

He  loved  his  fellow-men,  their  faults  could  view 

With  lenient  eye,  yet  to  himself  be  true  ; 

Could  warn  the  sinner  from  the  wrath  to  come, 

And  lead  the  prodigal,  repentant,  home  ; 

Do  good  all  silently,  like  summer  rain, 

Or  as  the  gentle  dew  falls  on  the  plain. 

The  mortal  form  was  frail,  the  spirit  drew 

From  heaven  its  strength  to  suffer  and  to  do. 

No  more  on  earth  his  kindly  deeds  we  trace, 

We  see  no  more  his  calm  and  holy  face, 


86  MOUNT    AUBURN. 

But  as  of  old  a  voice  from  heaven  said, 

So  may  we  now  say,  "  Blessed  are  the  dead 

Who  die  in  the  Lord;  they  from  their  labors  rest, 

Their  works  do  follow  them !  "     So  is  he  blest, 

The  pure  in  heart,  the  virtuous  in  deed, 

Who  from  all  sects,  from  men  of  every  creed, 

Won  love  and  reverence,  such  as  must  be  given 

To  all  true  servants  of  the  God  of  heaven. 

By  Channing's  side  he  sleeps,  that  shining  light, 

That  fearless  champion  of  truth  and  right; 

Nobly  in  life  they  lived,  in  quiet  deep, 

The  o'erwrought  frame  is  laid  in  peaceful  sleep. 

Age  after  age  our  country  still  shall  claim, 

Grateful  and  proud,  each  high  and  honored  name  ; 

The  influence  of  those  lofty  spirits  pure 

Must  live  while  truth  and  freedom  shall  endure. 

Beloved  Mount  Auburn !  in  thy  peaceful  breast 
May  I  find  calm  repose  and  quiet  rest, 
When  closed  the  scenes  of  life,  when  strife  shall  cease, 
And  gently  o'er  me  hover  heavenly  peace  ;- 
Then,  then,  dear  earth,  take  back  thy  weary  child 
Into  thy  gentle  arms,  O  mother  mild  ! 


\  MOUNT   AUBURN.  87 

May  the  green  sod,  where  I  in  childhood  played, 
>     Above  my  silent  heart  be  lightly  laid, 

And  the  wild  flowers,  that  then  such  gladness  gave, 
Breathe  their  faint  perfume  o'er  my  lowly  grave. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS- 


THE    LADY    ARABELLA. 


THE  moon  looked  down  on  many  a  land, 

On  the  sea-girt  rock,  and  the  wave-dashed  strand, 

On  snow-capped  mountain,  and  fertile  plain, 

On  the  silent  city,  and  restless  main. 

The  moon  looked  down  from  her  golden  throne, 

And  the  sleeping  world  beneath  her  shone  ; 

The  unconscious  babe  was  laid  to  rest, 

Pillowed  full  soft  on  its  mother's  breast ; 

Fair  childhood,  weary  of  sport  and  play, 

Had  sunk  to  sleep  with  the  sun's  last  ray ; 

The  flowers  their  weary  lids  had  closed, 

And  earth  in  the  mellow  light  reposed. 


y*  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

All  was  silent,  and  all  was  still, 

Save  the  ever  murmuring  rill, 

Singing  its  music  quiet  and  low, 

And  kissing  the  flowers  in  its  gentle  flow  ; 

And  ever  anon  a  low  chirp  heard 

From  the  downy  nest  of  some  startled  bird ; 

And  fire-fly  lamps  in  the  long  grass  shone, 

Like  clustering  gems  at  random  thrown. 

The  Ladye  sat  at  her  casement  low, 
The  soft  breeze  wandered  to  and  fro ; 
It  kissed  her  brow  and  gently  played 
With  the  shadowy  tresses  that  o'er  it  strayed  ; 
O,  the  Ladye's  cheek  was  like  the  snow, 
Save  one  deep  spot  of  the  crimson  glow ; 
The  Ladye's  hand  was  pale  and  thin, 
Lightly  wandered  each  soft  blue  vein  ; 
In  her  lustrous  eye  was  a  saddened  light, 
As  the  Ladye  looked  out  on  the  summer  night, 
For  across  life's  pathway  a  shadow  fell, 
And  clouded  thy  heaven,  Lady  Arabelle. 


THE    LADY   ARABELLA.  93 

Deep  the  forest  and  black  the  shade 

By  the  gloomy,  ancient  pine-trees  made  ; 

Hollow  murmured  each  wind-swept  bough, 

As  the  fresh  night-breeze  went  rushing  through  ; 

Brightly  glittered  the  silver  sand, 

As  the  dashing  waves  broke  on  the  strand  ; 

And  high  rose  the  masts  of  the  vessel  that  lay 

With  her  white  sails  furled  in  the  broad,  smooth  bay. 

Far  away  o'er  the  ocean  foam 
Was  Lady  Arbella's  ancestral  home ; 
Softly  she  breathed  a  gentle  sigh, 
As  her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  days  gone  by  : 
She  saw  before  her  the  castle  walls, 
She  stood  once  more  in  the  ancient  halls  ; 
Once  more  a  gay  and  light-hearted  girl, 
She  dwelt  in  the  home  of  the  noble  earl, 
And  fondly  her  father  looked  down  and  smiled, 
With  a  father's  pride,  on  his  lovely  child ; 
Her  gentle  mother's  arms  were  wound,       ••»• 
In  a  clasp  of  love,  her  form  around, 
And  her  favorite  brother's  bright,  dark  eye 
Was  lighted  with  joy  when  she  was  nigh ; 


94  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

All  wove  about  her  a  kindly  spell, 
All  spoke  to  the  heart  of  Arabelle. 
Royal  splendor  and  proud  array, 
Pomp  and  grandeur  before  her  lay, 
Stately  ceiling  and  pictured  walls, 
Lofty  domes,  where  the  soft  light  falls 
Through  colored  crystal  of  varied  hue 
On  the  marble  pavement  white  and  blue ; 
This  was  the  home  of  her  happy  youth, 
'Mid  virtue  and  valor,  love  and  truth. 

On  this  soft  green  turf  her  feet  had  trod, 
She  had  plucked  the  flowers  from  this  verdant  sod 
She  had  watched  the  bounding  deer  spring  by, 
Or,  startled,  gaze  with  earnest  eye ; 
She  had  sat  beneath  yon  stately  tree, 
Flinging  its  branches  wide  and  free, 
And  the  very  sounds  she  seemed  to  hear 
That  fell  so  sweetly  then  on  her  ear. 
From  her  parted  lips  she  murmured  forth : 
"  O  lovely  land  of  my  home  and  birth, 
Farewell,  farewell,  dear  home,  for  ever! 
For  O,  again  I  shall  see  thee  never ! 


THE    LADY   ARABELLA.  95 

All  the  haunts  of  childhood's  hours, 
Every  green  spot  to  memory  dear, 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  perfumed  flowers, 
Softer  than  music  to  the  ear,  — 
Ye  who  were  twined  so  round  my  heart 
That  its  very  chords  seemed  rent  apart, 
When  I  left  you  all  for  another  land, 
My  native  shore  for  a  foreign  strand,  — 
Take  the  last  sigh  and  sad  farewell 
Breathed  from  the  heart  of  Arabelle. 

"  Think  not  I  mourn  my  earthly  loss, 
I  count  it  but  gain  for  my  Master's  cross. 
I  mourn  for  thee,  my  native  land ! 
Oppression  and  wrong  go  hand  in  hand  ; 
Evil  thy  rulers,  and  dark  thine  hour, 
For  crime  sits  throned  by  the  side  of  power; 
Darker,  darker  thy  days  shall  be, 
The  vial  of  wrath  will  be  poured  on  thee ! 
Men  of  sin  are  the  servants  of  God, 
O'er  thee  is  held  their  iron  rod  ; 
Wider  and  blacker  shall  spread  the  cloud, 
Folding  thee  in  its  sable  shroud  ; 


96  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Wise  and  good  thou  hast  driven  forth, 

Men  of  virtue,  truth,  and  worth, 

But  from  their  noble  sacrifice 

A  loftier  nation  shall  arise, 

They  shall  serve  God  in  purity, 

Free  from  haughty  iniquity; 

Many  long  years  shall  pass  away, 

But  the  morning  shall  dawn  to  perfect  day." 

Again  she  looked  forth  from  her  casement  low, 
And  she  heard  the  murmuring  waters  flow ; 
She  saw  the  corn-fields  waving  green, 
And  the  white  tents  gleaming  in  silver  sheen. 
Few  were  the  dwellings,  few  and  rude, 
Beyond  was  primeval  solitude  ; 
Step  of  man  had  seldom  been  there, 
The  wild  beast  lay  in  his  hidden  lair, 
Or  glared  with  dark,  ferocious  eye 
On  the  helpless  victim  wandering  nigh  ; 
And  the  wind  had  a  dreary,  sighing  tone, 
As  if  it  sobbed  with  a  wailing  moan. 


THE    LADY    ARABELLA.  97 

Shivered  the  Ladye's  fragile  form, 

Frail  as  a  reed  before  the  storm, 

And  her  heart  beat  quick,  for  she  thought  of  one 

With  whom  all  trials  were  lightly  borne  ; 

With  him  she  had  crossed  the  ocean  blue, 

All  things  to  dare,  all  things  to  do, 

To  found  a  nation  where  all  might  be  free 

To  worship  God  in  sincerity. 

Sad  was  the  heart  of  Arabelle, 
Fast  from  her  eyes  the  tears  down  fell ; 
For  she  knew  her  days  were  few  and  brief, 
And  that  long  before  the  forest  leaf 
Should  trembling  fall  from  the  slightest  spray, 
She  would  have  faded  from  earth  away. 
Not  for  herself  she  wept,  but  him, 
For  she  knew  the  light  of  his  life  would  be  dim, 
And  she  felt  it  a  bitter  thing  to  part 
From  the  true,  the  tender,  the  faithful  heart ; 
And  she  almost  feared  ere  his  return 
She  should  silent  sleep  in  her  funeral  urn. 


98  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

She  felt  the  night-wind  chill  and  cold 
Piercing  through  her  mantle's  fold  ; 
Weary  and  weak  she  knelt  in  prayer, 
That  this  bitter  cup  the  Father  would  spare, 
And  strengthen  her  husband's  fainting  soul, 
When  the  waves  of  sorrow  should  o'er  him  roll : 
Then  on  her  couch  she  lay  down  to  rest ; 
In  the  visions  of  night  her  soul  was  blest. 

The  clouds  of  morning  were  crimson  and  gold, 
Gleaming  like  banners  in  many  a  fold  ; 
Up  rose  the  sun  from  his  ocean  bed, 
O'er  the  New  World  his  glory  was  shed, 
The  dark  pine  forest  gleamed  in  the  light, 
With  its  glittering  leaves  so  slender  and  bright. 
From  the  straw-roofed  hut  and  the  lowly  tent 
Light  wreaths  of  smoke  were  upward  sent,  — 
For  Salem,  the  City  of  Peace,  had  then 
But  eight  rude  dwellings  on  all  her  plain, 
And  the  settler's  axe  through  the  forest  rung, 
When  the  early  rays  of  the  dawning  sprung. 


THE    LADY    ARABELLA. 


99 


Sweet  was  the  air  that  summer  morn, 
The  carol  of  birds  was  lightly  borne, 
Sparkled  the  corn  leaves  fresh  and  green 
With  pearls  of  dew  and  silver  sheen  ; 
Forth  went  the  laborer  to  his  toil, 
For  there  were  but  few  to  till  the  soil, 
And  the  fear  of  famine  dark  and  dread 
Hung  heavily  o'er  the  settler's  head. 

Through  the  forest  at  early  day 
Two  travellers  hastened  on  their  way  : 
One  had  a  mantle  around  him  thrown, 
Rainbow  plumage  upon  it  shone ; 
Inwrought  with  shells  and  sparkling  beads, 
It  told  a  tale  of  the  warrior's  deeds, 
For  he  was  an  Indian  chief  and  brave, 
Who  counsel  and  guidance  the  white  man  gave 
The  other  who  travelled  the  forest  wild 
Was  England's  yet  more  noble  child  ; 


100  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

He  was  a  stranger  in  the  land, 
His  pilgrim's  staff  was  in  his  hand  ; 
Scarcely  a  moon  had  fleeted  by 
Since  his  vessel  these  shores  drew  nigh, 
But  well  he  loved  the  land  of  the  West, 
And  deemed  it  a  place  that  God  had  blest 
And  here  beneath  its  lovely  skies 
Soon  should  his  future  home  arise. 

Blackstone  the  hermit,  who  lived  alone, 
Where  Shawmut  reared  its  triple  cone, 
Had  bid  him  come  with  his  little  band, 
And  dwell  in  his  fairer,  better  land. 
And  now  the  pilgrim's  heart  was  gay, 
As  he  wended  joyous  on  his  way  : 
He  had  chosen  his  home  at  last, 
In  a  goodly  land  his  lot  was  cast, 
In  a  brief  space  he  would  be  beside 
His  gentle  and  noble-hearted  bride  ; 
Fondly  he  loved  on  the  theme  to  dwell, 
For  all  his  thought  was  of  Arabelle. 


THE  LADY  ARABELLA.  101 

Every  land  with  her  was  fair, 
Light  for  her  was  every  care, 
Fervently  she  thanked  high  Heaven 
That  this  treasure  had  been  given  ; 
Trustingly  with  him  to  come 
She  had  left  her  stately  home, 
And  would  he  not,  for  her  dear  sake, 
A  garden  of  Eden  the  wilderness  make  ? 

Ere  he  reached  the  town  his  Indian  guide 
Had  parted  from  the  pilgrim's  side  ; 
He  wended  alone  upon  his  way 
To  where  the  dwelling  of  Endicott  lay  ; 
His  simple  homestead  was  somewhat  less  rude 
Than  the  comfortless  huts  which  round  it  stood. 
Dark  fell  his  shadow  upon  the  floor, 
As  he  paused  for  a  moment  in  the  door, 
When  a  cry  of  joy  through  the  cottage  rung, 
And  the  arms  of  his  Ladye  were  round  him  flung : 
Tears  of  joy  o'er  her  pale  cheek  fell, 
And  gemmed  the  dark  lashes  of  Arabelle. 


102  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

O,  but  her  husband's  heart  was  fain, 

As  he  clasped  her  gentle  form  again  ! 

And  he  poured  forth  words  of  truth  and  love 

To  her  he  valued  all  earth  above. 

O,  't  is  rare  in  the  world  to  see 

Such  devotion  and  constancy  ! 

'T  were  too  much  bliss  to  mortals  given, 

Too  near  were  the  earth  allied  to  heaven. 

These  moments  of  rapture  too  swiftly  flew, 
They  were  the  last  he  ever  knew  ! 
The  Ladye's  head  o'n  his  shoulder  was  laid, 
And  he  saw  not  the  ravage  disease  had  made 
But  when  she  moved  with  a  modest  grace 
And  lifted  her  wan  yet  lovely  face, 
Where  the  hectic  burned  with  its  fatal  glow, 
Then  struck  to  his  heart  the  deadly  blow  ; 
Sharp  and  bitter  his  anguished  cry, 
"  O  God  !  have  I  brought  thee  here  to  diev?  " 
Fearful  agony  shook  his  frame, 
And  sobs  from  his  heaving  bosom  came  ; 


THE    LADY   ARABELLA.  103 

Dark  and  wild  was  his  gleaming  eye, 
As  he  lifted  his  gaze  to  heaven  high, 
Almost  it  said  he  deemed  unjust ; 
The  heavy  doom  his  hopes  had  crushed  ; 
Tears  poured  down  his  cheeks  like  rain, 
And  his  voice  was  choked  by  sobs  of  pain  ; 
But  calm  o'er  the  passionate  words  that  fell 
Rose  the  silvery  voice  of  Arabelle. 

"  My  heart's  beloved  !  O,  do  not  weep, 
Because  I  go  to  my  dreamless  sleep ; 
Mourn  not  because  the  Father's  will 
Forbids  my  being  with  thee  still. 
For  thy  return  I  have  watched  and  wept, 
And  vigils  through  long  night-hours  have  kept, 
And  have  prayed  the  Father,  on  bended  knee, 
That  but  once  more  thy  form  I  might  see. 
The  bitterness  of  death  hath  passed, 
For  thou  wilt  be  with  me  at  the  last. 
Calm  thee,  beloved,  and  weep  no  more  ; 
The  grief,  the  trial  will  soon  be  o'er. 


104  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  Father's  hand  is  with  us  still ; 
Shall  we  not  bow  to  his  holy  will  ? 
I  may  no  longer  be  with  thee  here, 
But  He  will  send  thee  the  Comforter  ; 
For  us  our  Master  bore  the  cross,  — 
With  him  to  die  is,  indeed,  no  loss  ; 
'T  is  but  the  chastening  hand  of  love, 
Which  leads  us  both  to  the  world  above." 

O,  but  her  voice,  so  sweet  and  low, 
Was  softer  than  music  in  its  flow  ; 
And  to  look  in  her  calm  and  holy  eyes 
Was  like  seeing  an  angel  of  Paradise ; 
And  it  stilled  his  passion's  troubled  wave, 
And  courage  and  strength  to  the  weeper  gave, 
And  he  felt  the  truth  of  the  holy  word, 
And  calmer  said,  "It  is  the  Lord  ! 
I  was  unworthy  to  be  so  blest, 
Let  him  do  as  it  seemeth  best. 
The  heavy  hour  that  calls  thee  to  die 
Will  break  my  strongest  earthly  tie. 


THE    LADY    ARABELLA.  105 

God  has  given  me  work  to  do, 

Still  that  work  I  must  pursue ; 

But  the  happiest  moment  I  can  know 

Will  be  when  I,  too,  am  called  to  go. 

Very  dear  hast  thou  been  to  me, 

In  thy  angelic  purity  ; 

And  thy  perfect  love  had  power 

To  cheer  life's  darkest,  gloomiest  hour. 

"  I  thought  to  make  thee  a  happy  home, 
Where  the  blight  of  sorrow  could  not  come ; 
I  thought  to  have  made  my  arm  thy  shield  ; 
I  thought  my  heart  would  have  sheltered  thee  ; 
But  God  has  called  me  my  treasure  to  yield, 
For  I  loved  thee  with  wild  idolatry. 
I  am  smitten  through  with  the  pointed  dart, 
The  barbed  arrow  has  pierced  my  heart ; 
The  burden  is  laid  on  my  very  soul ; 
The  waves  and  billows  above  me  roll ! 
Pray  that  I  sink  not  beneath  their  swell ; 
Pray  for  me,  pray  with  me,  Arabelle  !  " 


106  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Low  on  the  cabin  floor  they  knelt, 
Poured  out  to  God  their  hearts  in  prayer 
He  who  hears  the  raven  cry 
Heard  and  answered  his  children  there  : 
Strength  was  given  them  to  endure, 
Courage  their  fainting  souls  to  save, 
And  they  felt  eternal  life  was  theirs, 
Beyond  the  portals  of  the  grave. 

Paler  and  weaker,  day  by  day, 
The  gentle  Ladye  faded  away, 
Sank  to  rest,  as  a  fragile  flower, 
Borne  away  from  its  sheltered  bower, 
And  planted  far  in  the  lonely  wild,  — 
So  faded  England's  lovely  child. 
The  murmur  of  the  summer  breeze 
Lightly  stirred  the  forest  trees  ; 
The  curled  waves  melted  on  the  strand, 
All  was  fair  on  the  sea  and  land, 
Shone  in  the  heavens  the  sun's  low  ray, 
As  the  Ladye's  spirit  passed  away. 


THE    LADY   ARABELLA.  107 

He  who  sat  beside  her  bed 

Uttered  no  sigh,  no  tear-drop  shed  ; 

So  still,  so  fixed  his  earnest  eye, 

Inly  they  feared  he,  too,  would  die. 

Not  a  word  did  her  husband  speak, 

Calmly  he  kissed  her  marble  cheek, 

Calmly  he  kissed  the  pallid  brow, 

And  the  curved  lips  colder  than  the  snow  ; 

And  they  his  motionless  face  who  saw 

In  their  hearts  were  stricken  with  fear  and  awe. 

In  many  a  manly  heart  was  grief 
That  a  life  so  fair  should  be  so  brief, 
And  far  and  wide  on  every  hand 
A  voice  of  wailing  went  through  the  land. 
Deeply,  deeply  their  loss  they  wept, 
Their  best,  their  loveliest  in  silence  slept ; 
And  the  sons  of  the  forest  bewailed  the  hour, 
When  faded  from  earth  the  English  flower. 
Not  like  her  kin  was  she  laid  to  rest, 
No  velvet  pall,  and  no  plumed  hearse  ; 
No  costly  marble  was  piled  on  her  breast, 
Chiselled  for  her  no  elegiac  verse  : 


108  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

In  the  fresh  sod  her  grave  they  made, 
Lightly  the  greensward  was  o'er  her  laid  ; 
The  wind-swept  pines  and  the  ocean  surge 
Poured  forth  for  her  the  funeral  dirge  ; 
Grander,  loftier  was  their  swell, 
Than  ever  from  pealing  organ  fell  ; 
And  a  life  in  holy  purity  spent 
Was  the  Ladye's  proudest  monument. 

Many  long  years  have  come  and  gone 
Since  the  Ladye  passed  to  her  heavenly  home, 
And  the  ancient  forest  has  bowed  its  head, 
And  the  red  men  are  numbered  with  the  dead 
And  for  straw-roofed  cottage,  and  lowly  wall, 
Are  princely  dwelling  and  spacious  hall. 
The  rays  of  the  morning  gild  with  fire 
The  summit  of  many  a  lofty  spire, 
And  on  the  spot  where  the  Ladye  was  laid, 
When  her  grave  on  the  forest  edge  was  made, 
Standeth  a  stately  and  sacred  fane, 
Casting  its  shadow  upon  the  plain. 


THE   LADY  ARABELLA.  109 

When  the  tidings  were  borne  to  the  Ladye's  home, 

Far  away  o'er  the  ocean-foam, 

With  grief  and  sorrow  they  mourned  the  loss 

Of  her  who  had  taken  the  Master's  cross  ; 

For  there  lived  not  one  in  Lincolnshire, 

To  whose  heart  the  Ladye  was  not  dear. 

Bard  and  historian  long  shall  dwell 

On  the  life  of  the  Lady  Arabelle. 

Her  grave  was  damp  with  the  morning  dew, 
When  the  stricken  husband  towards  it  drew. 
Clad  in  the  sable  vestments  of  woe, 
His  form  was  bowed,  and  his  step  was  slow  ; 
He  knelt  with  his  forehead  to  the  sod, 
Fervent  and  deep  was  his  prayer  to  God. 
Slowly  he  turned  from  the  grave  away, 
Where  his  track  through  the  lonely  forest  lay  ; 
Heavy  he  leaned  on  his  pilgrim  staff, 
As  he  trod  the  narrow  and  toilsome  path  ; 
And  silent  and  still  walked  by  his  side 
His  faithful  friend,  his  Indian  guide. 


110  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

He  uttered  no  word  of  weariness 

When  he  reached  his  home  in  the  wilderness  : 

Kindly  in  Shawmut  they  greeted  him, 

For  they  saw  the  light  of  his  eye  was  dim, 

And  they  strove,  with  their  gentle  words  of  cheer, 

To  comfort  the  heart  they  held  so  dear. 

He  did  not  smile,  he  did  not  weep, 

The  shaft  had  stricken  all  too  deep  ; 

But  to  prosper  religion's  holy  cause 

His  labors  knew  no  rest,  no  pause. 

Whatever  work  was  just  and  true,      &'*;  3< 
Still  he  was  ever  ready  to  do  : 
Freely  he  gave  with  liberal  hand, 
To  prosper  his  chosen  and  well-loved  land  ; 
Zealous  in  every  work  of  love, 
To  build  up  the  church  of  God  he  strove. 
But  there  were  many  who  wept  to  trace 
The  change  in  his  calm  and  smileless  face  ; 
For  they  could  not  but  see,  that,  day  by  day, 
The  thread  of  his  life  was  wearing  away, 
And  that  nearer  and  nearer  the  time  drew  on 
When  his  place  should  be  void  and  his  journey  done: 


THE    LADY    ARABELLA.  Ill 

When  hushed  in  death  the  voice  should  be 
That  had  guided  them  so  tenderly  ; 
When  wisdom's  words  should  cease  to  flow, 
Cold  be  the  warm  heart's  generous  glow, 
And  he,  their  blessing,  their  hope,  their  stay, 
Should  be  called  to  pass  from  earth  away. 

One  brief  month  had  hastened  by, 
The  time  had  come,  and  the  hour  was  nigh, 
And  the  pilgrim  laid  him  down  to  die  : 
Friends  who  had  loved  him  had  gathered  near, 
With  deep-drawn  sigh  and  falling  tear. 
Tears  were  on  Winthrop's  manly  cheek, 
And  vainly  he  essayed  to  speak  ; 
But  he  pressed  the  hand  of  his  dying  friend, 
And  o'er  his  low  couch  would  often  bend, 
As  he  listened  to  catch  the  accents  dear, 
The  last  sweet  words  he  might  ever  hear. 

"  Listen,  my  dearest  friend  and  best, 
To  my  earnest,  last  request ! 
'T  was  my  hope  and  my  heart's  desire, 
When  the  sleep  of  death  upon  me  fell, 


112  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

My  form  should  be  placed  in  the  holy  earth, 
Where  sleeps  my  sainted  Arabelle. 
But  the  way  is  long,  and  it  may  not  be, 
And  our  parted  souls  will  meet  as  soon 
As  if  the  mortal  forms  they  wore 
'Neath  the  same  sod  had  lain  them  down. 
Where  I  thought  to  have  made  my  home, 
Where  I  had  meant  my  house  should  be, 
Where  the  sod  is  broken,  my  own  kind  friend, 
There  would  I  have  thee  bury  me. 

"  We  have  taken  sweet  counsel  in  our  lives, 
O  true-hearted  one  and  brave  ! 
But  do  not  mourn  when  I  am  gone, 
Shed  not  a  tear  upon  my  grave  ; 
For  faith  has  made  my  vision  clear, 
And  brightly  have  been  revealed  to  me 
Scenes  that  are  hidden  from  mortal  gaze, 
In  the  depths  of  far  futurity. 
Where  the  lofty  trees  that  wave, 
And  bend  above  rny  humble  grave, 


THE   LADY   ARABELLA.  113 

Cast  their  shadows  on  every  part, 
Shall  be  a  mighty  city's  heart. 
In  the  waters  of  yon  blue  bay, 
Where  our  few  vessels  at  anchor  lay, 
A  forest  of  masts  and  spars  shall  rise 
From  ships  that  shall  sail  to  every  land, 
Whose  canvass  be  spread  beneath  all  skies, 
Whose  anchors  be  cast  on  every  strand. 
These  hills  shall  be  moved,  and  for  every  tree 
There  a  dwelling-place  shall  be  ; 
A  hundred  spires  shall  catch  the  ray 
Of  the  setting  sun  and  the  dawning  day. 
Sons  and  daughters  shall  bless  the  land, 
Plenty  and  peace  be  on  every  hand,  — 
Boundless  wealth  and  prosperity, 

0  my  country !  God  giveth  thee. 

1  thank  the  Lord  that  I  have  been 
Permitted  to  see  this  work  begin, 
For  so  it  shall  be  assuredly, 
Even  as  I  have  declared  to  thee." 

O'er  his  lips  played  a  heavenly  smile, 
In  his  eyes  shone  a  holy  light ; 

8 


114  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

They  who  looked  on  his  face  the  while 
Deemed  he  held  converse  with  angels  bright. 
Almost  it  seemed  a  sin  to  mourn 
For  the  holy  and  wise  who  had  from  them  gone. 
He  "  died  in  sweet  peace  " ;  but  the  people  wept 
For  their  earthly  stay  and  trust  who  slept. 

In  yonder  noble  city's  *  heart, 
Where  her  earliest  children  sleep, 
Where  the  ancient  Chapel's  t  wall 
Casts  its  shadow  dark  and  deep,  — 
There  within  the  church-yard  old 
They  laid  the  Pilgrim's  honored  dust ; 
Though  no  marble  marked  the  spot, 
Earth  has  kept  the  sacred  trust. 
Wise  and  good  men,  when  they  died, 
Sought  to  lie  down  at  his  side. 
Many  an  ancient  sculptured  stone 
By  the  tall  grass  is  o'ergrown  ; 
Waving  willow  boughs  are  bent 
O'er  the  antique  monument. 

*  Boston.  t  The  Stone  Chapel. 


THE   LADY   ARABELLA.  115 

Spots  of  rust  are  thick  and  dark 
In  the  chiselled  letters'  mark  ; 
Moss  has  crept  upon  the  stone, 
And  within  the  crevice  grown. 
There,  when  summer  breezes  blow, 
And  the  green  boughs  idly  wave, 
And  the  long  grass  sighs  around, 
Bending  o'er  the  lowly  grave,  — 
There  't  is  pleasant  to  look  down 
On  the  tomb-stones  gray  and  brown  ; 
Pleasant  musingly  to  gaze, 
And  think  upon  the  former  days. 
For  by  the  green  graves  of  our  dead 
Upward  are  our  wishes  led  ; 
But  for  these  we  might  not  love 
Our  land  other  lands  above  ; 
But  for  these,  indeed,  might  we 
Forget  our  immortality : 
And  for  this  I  love  to  gaze 
On  this  record  of  old  days  : 
On  the  graves  our  fathers  made, 
On  the  ground  where  they  were  laid. 


116 


ROSES. 


WHO  does  not  love  the  rose  ?     From  earliest  day, 

It  has  been  sung  in  poets'  varied  lay, 

Fairest  of  flowers  !     Upon  her  slender  stem, 

Glittering  with  dew-drops  like  a  diadem, 

How,  on  a  summer's  morn,  she  sits  serene, 

With  graceful  sway,  a  fair,  unrivalled  queen  ! 

Who  does  not  love  the  rose  ?  Love's  own  sweet  flower, 

In  courtly  halls,  or  in  the  rustic  bower  ; 

From  the  first  moment  when  its  vermeil  glow 

The  timid  rose-bud  coy  begins  to  show, 

Through  all  its  life,  so  sweet  though  yet  so  brief, 

Till  the  last  fragile,  wan,  and  dying  leaf 

With  perfumed  sigh  yields  up  its  odorous  breath, 

And,  a  "  pale  ruin,"  gently  lies  in  death. 


117 


Love's  own  peculiar  flower  !  its  magic  tone 

Needs  no  interpreter  to  make  it  known, 

No  mystic  lore,  no  hidden  skill  or  art,  — 

Its  simple  eloquence  speaks  to  the  heart ; 

If  joy  or  sorrow  rule  the  passing  ho,ur, 

The  rose,  the  gentle  rose,  is  love's  peculiar  flower. 

'T  was  in  the  olden  time, 

Long  centuries  ago, 
Ere  yet  the  rose  displayed 

Its  crimson  or  its  snow, 
From  out  fair  Flora's  court 

A  light-winged  zephyr  sped, 
A  herald  to  the  sunbeams, 

That  golden  glory  shed,  — 
A  herald  to  the  breezes, 

To  the  zephyrs  of  the  flowers, 
And  a  herald  to  the  gentle  rain, 

That  falls  in  diamond  showers. 
And  the  soft  rain,  and  the  breezes, 

And  the  beams  of  golden  sheen, 


118  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

All  hastened  to  the  palace 

Of  the  lovely  floral  queen. 
And  there,  with  strange  observance, 

With  mystic  spell  and  rite, 
Sunbeams  and  zephyrs  wrought  by  day, 

The  gentle  rain  by  night : 
The  sunbeams  wrought  all  silently, 

The  zephyrs  gently  blew, 
And  at  eventide  and  morning, 

Came  the  refreshing  dew. 
And  every  day  came  Flora, 

And  brought  the  rosy  Hours, 
To  watch  the  growth  and  progress 

Of  the  new  and  wondrous  flowers. 
And  she  set  a  fay  to  watch  by  day, 

And  one  to  watch  by  night, 
To  guard  the  plants  from  insects, 

From  mildew  and  from  blight  : 
For  there  were  evil  spirits 

That  sought  to  do  them  ill, 
And  were  always  hovering  round  them, 

To  work  their  wicked  will. 


119 


But  when  the  timid  buds 

Of  soft  and  tender  green 
Amid  the  emerald  leaflets 

Just  peeping  out  were  seen, 
And  she  should  have  watched  with  care 

More  earnest  and  more  deep, 
The.  little  faithless  fay 

At  night  fell  fast  asleep. 
And  while  soft  slumber  bound  her 

In  fetters  firm  and  strong, 
The  evil  spirits  hastened 

To  work  the  flowerets  wrong  : 
They  changed  the  colors  in  the  buds, 

And  withered  some  away, 
And  some  in  spite  they  killed  outright, 

But  fled  at  morning's  ray  : 
And  when  the  fay  awoke, 

She  started  with  affright, 
To  find  such  mischief  done 

Within  a  single  night. 
When  soon  fair  Flora  came, 

And  saw  the  ruin  wrought, 


120  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

The  careless  fay  she  sent  away, 

And  banished  from  her  court. 
And  now  the  expanding  buds 

Sent  forth  a  faint  perfume, 
And,  bursting  from  each  calyx,  V 

Behold,  the  roses  bloom  ! 
Thrilling  with  pride  and  joy, 

Flora  exulting  stood 
And  gazed  upon  their  beauty, 

In  most  enraptured  mood  : 
"  Run,  run,  my  little  page,"  she  cried, 

"  Bring  all  the  courtiers  here, 
And  we  '11  distribute  roses, 

As  best  it  may  appear." 
When  all  the  court  were  met, 

And  had  admiring  gazed 
Upon  the  lovely  flowers, 

And  wondered  much  and  praised, 
Said  Flora,  "  Yonder  rose, 

Whose  leaf  of  purest  snow 
Most  lovely  and  most  fair 

No  spot  or  stain  may  show, 


121 


I  give  to  maidens  young 

Whose  hearts  are  free  from  stain, 
Guileless  and  innocent  of  sin, 

Unconscious  of  its  pain. 
When  the  young  trusting  heart 

A  kindred  heart  has  found, 
And  love  has  wove  his  fetters  light 

And  the  free  spirit  bound, 
Then  shall  this  perfumed  flower, 

Of  love's  own  proper  hue, 
Celestial  rosy  red, 

To  the  betrothed  be  due. 
When  by  the  altar's  side 

The  solemn  words  are  spoken, 
And  those  sweet  vows  are  said 

That  never  may  be  broken, 
The  lovely  blush  rose  laid  aside, 

The  gentle  wife  must  wear 
The  rose  all  clad  in  emerald  moss, 

Lovely  beyond  compare. 
To  her  who  's  lost  the  charm  of  life, 

The  fondest  friend,  the  nearest, 


122  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Though  others  may  be  fond  and  true, 

The  truest  and  the  dearest,  — 
Unto  the  widowed  heart  I  give, 

Sad  emblem  of  her  grief, 
This  mourning  rose  of  purple  hue, 

Of  soft  and  velvet  leaf. 
To  her,  the  fair  and  good,       s  •••'. 

The  gentle,  true,  and  kind, 
The  lovely,  meek,  and  pure, 

Of  lofty  soul  refined, 
Who,  in  her  life's  sweet  spring, 

Ere  yet  one  hope  might  wither, 
Hears  a  voice  from  on  high, 

Say  to  her  '  Come  up  hither  ! ' 
Who  meekly,  mildly  bends 

To  drink  the  cup  of  death, 
And  with  triumphant  smile 

Resigns  her  fleeting  breath, 
Pure  spirit !  her  I  give 

The  sweetest  flower  that  blows,  — 
Even  angels  on  their  radiant  crowns 

Might  wear  the  thornless  rose. 


123 


To  her,  whose  sad  and  bruised  heart 

Has  known  that  deepest  grief, 
That  pang  for  which  art  has  no  cure 

And  time  brings  no  relief, 
Who  's  found  the  heart  she  leaned  upon 

A  piercing  broken  reed, 
And  bitter,  where  she  looked  for  sweet, 

For  honey,  gall  instead, 
Whose  fame  the  vile  ones  of  the  earth 

Have  basely  sought  to  mar, 
But  vainly,  —  for  't  is  but  a  cloud 

Before  a  radiant  star,  — 
And  yet  who  meekly  bears  her  lot, 

Whose  heart,  though  bruised  and  broken, 
Even  in  the  dark  night  of  despair 

No  murmuring  word  has  spoken, 
Whose  virtues  brighter,  still  more  bright 

The  hours  of  life  disclose, 
True  woman  !  unto  her  I  give, 

The  monthly  cluster  rose." 
Now  Flora  looked  with  saddened  eye 

On  the  less  lovely  flowers, 


124  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

The  evil  sprites  had  marred  or  spoiled, 

And,  turning  to  the  Hours, 
Said  she,  "  These  flowers  we  must  bestow 

As  symbols  of  displeasure, 
Of  some  offences,  errors,  sins, 

According  to  the  measure. 
To  her  who  trifles  with  the  hearts 

That  bow  themselves  before  her, 
And  would  desire  them  each  and  all 

To  worship  and  adore  her, 
And  then  with  cold  and  ruthless  hand 

Quenches  the  kindled  fire, 
Heartless  coquette !  to  thee  I  give 

The  sweet  and  thorny  brier. 
By  her,  the  false  and  faithless  one, 

Whose  plighted  word  is  broken, 
I  bid  the  striped  rose  be  worn, 

Of  so  great  fault  the  token. 
This  other  rose,  whose  blossoming  buds 

Bright  yellow  leaves  unfold, 
I  give  unto  the  sordid  one 

Who  basely  weds  for  gold. 


125 


And  she  whose  cold  and  icy  heart 

No  ray  of  love  e'er  knows, 
The  current  of  whose  selfish  thoughts 

In  one  small  channel  flows, 
Meet  emblem  of  herself,  may  wear 

The  unlovely  marble  rose. 
Sanguinea  !  dark  and  bloody  red, 

Thou  unto  her  art  given, 
Who  from  a  fellow-mortal's  breast 

The  dear  life-blood  has  riven  ; 
The  crimson  hue,  that  o'er  thy  leaves 

So  sadly,  deeply  stole, 
Can  never  be  so  dark  a  stain 

As  dyes  her  very  soul." 
No  more,  there  were  no  more  to  give, 

Emblems  of  joy  or  woe, 
At  lovely  Flora's  palace, 

Long  centuries  ago. 


126 


DREAM-LAND. 


The  ancients  believed  that  dreams  were  sent  to  mankind  from  under  a 
spreading  elm-tree  in  the  infernal  regions,  in  the  shade  of  which  Somnus 
and  Morpheus  usually  sat ;  that  all  good  dreams  came  through  the  ivory 
gate,  and  all  bad  dreams  through  the  gate  of  brass. 


METHOUGHT  I  stood  in  a  pleasant  land, 

By  summer's  cooling  breezes  fanned, 

And  I  sat  me  down  beneath  the  shade, 

By  a  lofty  elm-tree's  branches  made. 

Not  a  sound  disturbed  the  silent  air, 

But  the  sluggish  stream  that  murmured  there  : 

So  quiet,  so  calm,  so  gently  still, 

That  Fancy  roved  with  an  unchecked  will, 

And  here,  'mid  a  grove  of  shadowy  pine, 

To  the  god  of  Silence  would  build  a  shrine  ; 

And  there,  'mid  the  yew-shades  dark  and  deep, 

An  altar  should  rise  to  the  god  of  Sleep ; 


DREAM-LAND.  127 

9 

And  under  the  spreading  elm-tree's  shade, 

Offerings  to  Morpheus  should  be  made. 

But,  lo  !  on  the  even's  soft,  balmy  air, 

The  stars  came  forth  in  their  beauty  fair. 

Methought  that  I  heard  a  rushing  sound,  — 

I  started  up,  and  I  looked  around, 

When,  behold !  through  the  darkened  air  I  saw 

A  chariot  slowly  toward  me  draw. 

In  that  chariot  rode  a  lady  bright, 

Whose  form  was  most  lovely  to  the  sight ; 

Her  ebon  hair  in  loose  tresses  flowed, 

By  zephyrs  kissed  as  she  onward  rode, 

And  "  a  world  of  meaning  "  seemed  to  lie 

In  the  depths  of  her  darkly  brilliant  eye. 

A  veil,  with  bright  stars  bespangled  o'er, 

Gracefully  floating,  the  lady  wore ; 

Of  ebony  hue,  a  star-tipped  wand, 

She  lightly  bore  in  her  snowy  hand  : 

She  gently  smiled,  as  she  passed  me  by, 

And  gracefully  waved  her  wand  on  high. 

And  tiny  figures  thus  gayly  sung, 

As  the  dew  from  their  fairy  wings  they  flung  : 


128  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

• 

"  Hail,  hail  to  our  queen  !  all  hail ! 

Even's  sweet  hours 

And  the  dewy  flowers 
Welcome  her  starry  veil. 

"  Hail,  hail !  our  beauteous  queen  ! 

Bright  dews  we  fling 

From  each  fairy  wing 
O'er  earth's  hills  and  valleys  green. 

"  Hail,  hail !  to  our  bright  queen,  hail ! 

She  waves  her  wand, 

In  her  gentle  hand, 
O'er  each  mount  and  hill  and  vale. 

"  She  gives  to  the  traveller  rest, 

And  the  laborer's  feet 

His  home  may  greet, 
And  with  sweet  repose  be  blest. 

"  For  sorrow  she  brings  a  balm, 

And  the  weeping  eye 

May  in  slumber  lie, 
And  the  troubled  heart  be  calm." 


DREAM-LAND. 

I  watched  the  car  as  it  rolled  away, 
Till  the  music  died  of  that  fairy  lay. 
I  turned  me  back  to  the  old  elm-tree  ; 
I  saw  two  figures,  —  who  might  they  be  1 
The  face  of  the  eldest  was  calm  and  mild 
As  the  placid  face  of  a  sleeping  child; 
Gravity,  mingled  with  smiling  grace, 
Was  seen  in  the  younger's  expressive  face. 
I  listened,  and  heard  the  eldest  say  : 
"  Hearken,  my  son,  and  our  queen  obey  ; 
She  has  brought  this  mortal  beneath  our  tree, 
A  lesson  to  learn  from  you  and  me. 
O'er  her  eyes  a  spell  will  I  throw, 
That  through  our  realms  she  may  safely  go  ; 
You  shall  show  her  such  secrets  of  old, 
As  never  before  were  to  mortals  told." 

He  waved  his  wand  above  my  head, 
And  darkness  over  me  seemed  to  spread  ; 
My  hand  in  his  the  youngest  drew, 
And  my  vision  again  came  clear  and  true  : 
Thousands  of  tiny  forms  seemed  there, 
Floating  about  in-the  ambient  air. 
9 


130  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

"  Listen,  O  mortal !  "  the  youngest  said, 

"  And  learn  on  what  errand  these  forms  are  sped. 

Spirits,  who  watch  around  the  bed 

Where  childhood  pillows  its  innocent  head, 

Go,  bear  him  visions  of  sunny  hours, 

Of  bee,  and  bird,  and  of  fragrant  flowers  ; 

Let  him  chase  the  butterfly  in  its  flight, 

And  play  by  cool  waters,  sparkling  bright. 

Haste  on  your  message,  the  hour  grows  late, 

Pass  ye  forth  by  the  Ivory  Gate." 

These  messenger  spirits  of  peace  and  love 

Had  the  snow-white  wings  of  a  gentle  dove  ; 

In  their  soft  blue  eyes  shone  a  placid  light, 

As  they  darted  away  in  joyous  flight. 

"  Spirits,  who  watch  o'er  the  maiden  fair, 
Lifting  the  curls  of  her  glossy  hair, 
Go,  wave  your  bright  wings  above  her  head, 
Sweetest  of  odors  around  her  shed  ; 
Give  her  bright  visions  of  love  and  truth, 
Such  as  are  meet  for  her  stainless  youth  ; 
Let  her  rove  forth  in  the  silent  glade, 
Where  the  spreading  trees  make  a  cooling  shade  ; 


DR£AM-LAND.  131 

Let  her  wander  with  him  her  heart  holds  dear, 
Where  the  running  rivulet  sparklea  clear  ; 
Let  them  twine  a  wreath  of  all  fragrant  flowers, 
Such  as  are  wove  by  the  laughing  Hours. 
Haste  on  your  message,  the  hour  grows  late, 
Pass  ye  forth'by  the  Ivory  Gate." 
Dove-like  the  wings  that  these  spirits  bore, 
But  a  heavenly  blue  was  the  hue  they  wore. 

"  Spirits,  that  gently  and  silently  glide 
To  your  stations  around  the  good  man's  side, 
Go,  bid  him  dream  of  the  hearts  he  has  blest, 
Of  the  weary  to  whom  he  has  given  rest ; 
Let  him  hear  rich  blessings  asked  in  prayer 
By  the  widow  and  orphan  gathered  there ; 
Let  the  lisping  voice  of  childhood  speak, 
Let  the  tear  of  gratitude  gem  the  cheek 
Of  the  aged  man,  as  he  blesses  him 
Who  shone  like  a  light  o'er  his  pathway  dim. 
Haste  on  your  message,  the  hour  grows  late, 
Pass  ye  forth  by  the  Ivory  Gate." 
Wings  like  the  bird  of  paradise  bright 
These  spirits  unfolded  in  their  flight. 


132  .     MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

"  Ye  spirits,  that  watch  and  ward  do  keep, 
Where  the  weary  poet  may  bow  to  sleep, 
Weave  ye  around  him  a  spell  of  light, 
Glorious  visions  of  beauty  bright; 
Let  him  walk  unseen  amid  the  crowd, 
Speaking  his  name  in  praises  loud  ; 
Let  him  see  his  burning  words  of  power 
Kindling  the  heart  in  its  darkest  hour, 
In  the  noontide  of  joy,  in  sorrow's  shade, 
Familiar  as  '  household  words '  be  made  ; 
Around  his  brow  the  green  bay-wreath  twine, 
Whose  leaves  shall  ne'er  lose  their  glossy  shine 
Bid  him  closely  study  the  human  heart, 
From  the  loftiest  down  to  the  lowest  part ; 
Tell  him  to  search,  with  the  keenest  look, 
Through  every  leaf  of  fair  Nature's  book, 
Till  his  mind  expand,  and  his  soul  shall  glow, 
As  torrents  of  knowledge  shall  o'er  him  flow  ; 
Rouse  ye  his  heart,  as  ye  over  him  float, 
Till  it  seems  to  be  stirred  by  a  '  trumpet  note,' 
And  he  proudly  vow  to  write  his  name 
Highest  of  all  in  the  scroll  of  Fame. 


DREAM-LAND.  133 

Haste  on  your  message,  the  hour  grows  kte, 
Pass  ye  forth  by  the  Ivory  Gate." 
The  spirits  that  proudly  this  message  bore 
Wings  like  the  soaring  eagle  wore. 

"  Ye  spirits,  that  love  to  hover  nigh, 
When  the  mother  closes  her  watchful  eye, 
Bid  her  loving  and  gentle  heart  rejoice, 
Let  her  hear  the  music  of  childhood's  voice, 
Let  her  fair-haired  girl  and  her  dark-eyed  boy 
Gather  around  her  with  smiles  of  joy  ; 
Let  her  prophet-eye  fix  an  eager  gaze 
On  the  blissful  scenes  of  coming  days, 
Till  her  cheek  shall  glow,  and  her  heart  shall  beat 
With  the  gushing  tide  of  rapture  sweet, 
And  all  her  trials  and  anxious  care 
Shall  vanish  away  as  in  empty  air. 
Haste  on  your  message,  the  hour  grows  late, 
Pass  ye  forth  by  the  Ivory  Gate." 
The  beautiful  spirits  that  floated  by 
With  the  wings  of  cherubim  did  fly. 


134  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Many  a  gentle  messenger  sprite 
Saw  I  speed  forth  in  their  gladsome  flight : 
Some  to  the  sailor,  who,  firm  and  brave, 
In  his  gallant  ship  crossed  the  ocean  wave; 
.     Some  to  the  statesman  of  noble  heart, 
Spurning  deceit's  darkly  subtle  part, 
Who  solely  sought  for  his  country's  good, 
And  in  armor  of  truth  undaunted  stood  : 
But  of  all  who  were  blessed  I  cannot  tell, 
They  were  only  of  those  who  had  acted  well. 
Some  frolic  sprites  I  could  not  but  spy, 
Who  wore  the  wings  of  a  butterfly  ; 
These  bore  visions  of  playful  mirth, 
Loving  to  teaze  the  children  of  earth  ; 
They  sought  the  merry,  light-hearted,  and  free, 
Filling  their  minds  with  visions  of  glee. 
All  these  messengers,  early  and  late, 
Sped  them  forth  through  the  Ivory  Gate. 

"  Spirits,  that  darkly  and  silently  creep, 
Where  the  usurer  lies  in  a  troubled  sleep, 
Let  visions  of  darkness  before  him  rise, 
Let  him  hear  his  victim's  moaning  cries, 


DREAM-LAND.  135 

Let  him  see  the  widow  and  orphan  there, 

But  not  for  a  blessing,  their  desperate  prayer ; 

Let  those  he  has  robbed  of  home  and  all 

For  a  bitter  curse  on  the  traitor  call ; 

Let  him  see,  in  the  midnight  dark  and  dread, 

The  savage  robber  beside  his  bed  ; 

Let  sounds  of  such  terror  his  slumbers  shake, 

That  his  heart  shall  fail,  and  his  flesh  shall  quake, 

And  he  dread,  like  an  evil  demon's  power, 

The  terrible  visions  of  midnight's  hour. 

Away  on  your  message,  the  swift  hours  pass, 

Speed  ye  forth  by  the  Gate  of  Brass." 

These  darksome  spirits  had  harpies'  wings, 

And  venomed  darts  like  scorpions'  stings. 

"  Spirits,  that  round  the  murderer  stand, 
With  a  brother's  blood  on  his  red  right  hand, 
Make  a  hateful  curse  of  his  dreaded  sleep  : 
Let  all  loathsome  reptiles  around  him  creep, 
Let  the  serpent  hiss,  the  adder  sting, 
And  cluster  round  him  each  noisome  thing ; 
Let  the  form  of  the  dead  before  him  rise, 
With  pale,  pale  face,  and  reproachful  eyes, 


i 


136  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Till  in  terror  and  anguish  he  groan  aloud, 
And  envy  the  dead  in  his  pall  and  shroud. 
Haste  on  your  message,  the  swift  hours  pass, 
Speed  ye  forth  by  the  Gate  of  Brass." 
With  vultures'  wings  these  spirits  flew, 
Ill-omened  and  dire,  to  their  message  true. 

"  Spirits,  with  wings  of  the  blackest  dye, 
That  ever  the  slanderer  hover  nigh, 
Who  plays  a  worse  than  murderer's  part, 
(For,  in  stabbing  fair  fame,  he  stabs  the  heart,) 
Go,  let  him  feel,  in  a  vision  dire, 
That  his  own  false  tongue  is  a  flame  of  fire, 
Till  its  fierce  and  scorching  blasts  reveal 
The  pangs  he  has  made  another  feel, 
And  he  finds  his  black  and  treacherous  heart 
Is  pierced  by  a  keen  and  venomed  dart. 
Haste  on  your  message,  the  swift  hours  pass, 
Speed  ye  forth  by  the  Gate  of  Brass." 
Wings  like  the  raven's,  of  blackest  hue, 
These  spirits  unfolded  to  my  view. 


DREAM-LAND.  137 

"  Spirits,  whose  mission  of  dread- and  ill 
Ye  evermore  hasten  to  fulfil, 
Ye,  who  to  punish  the  traitor  go, 
Who  has  mixed  for  his  country  a  cup  of  woe, 
Let  him  see,  in  his  sleep,  a  nation's  eyes 
With  looks  of  contempt  before  him  rise  ; 
Wherever  his  treacherous  gaze  he  turn,* 
There  let  it  meet  the  '  finger  of  scorn ' ; 
On  the  earth,  the  heavens,  the  sea's  wide  flow, 
In  letters  of  fire,  let '  traitor '  glow  ; 
Let  myriads  of  voices  fill  the  air, 
For  ever  shouting  forth  '  traitor '  there. 
If  the  glance  of  despair  on  himself  he  turn, 
There  let  him  find  the  deepest  scorn, 
Till  the  reptile  in  dust  shall  grovelling  lie, 
And  seek  to  conceal  what  can  never  die. 
Haste  on  your  message,  the  swift  hours  pass, 
Speed  ye  forth  by  the  Gate  of  Brass." 
A  dragon's  wings  these  spirits  wore, 
Half-human,  half-serpent,  the  forms  they  bore. 

Crowds  of  these  spirits  I  thus  did  see, 
As  I  sat  beneath  the  old  elm-tree. 


138  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Some  to  the  guilty  drunkard  went, 

On  his  own  destruction  madly  bent ; 

Vile  and  degraded,  disgrace  and  shame 

Must  mingle  for  ever  with  his  name. 

Some  to  the  fawning  hypocrites  flew, 

The  mean,  sycophantic,  crouching  crew! 

Some  to  defrauders,  and  worldly  wise, 

Some  to  the  lovers  and  makers  of  lies. 

Of  those  that  were  sent  to  the  doers  of  ill, 

All  that  I  saw  would  a  volume  fill. 

Some  spirits  were  sent,  with  an  aspect  grave, 

To  sprinkle  the  dreamless  with  Lethe's  wave. 

While  deeply  I  mused  on  each  wondrous  sight, 

Methought  I  heard  sounds  of  laughter  light; 

With  somewhat  of  wonder  my  eyes  I  raised, 

And  the  scene  was  fled  on  which  I  had  gazed : 

'T  was  no  pleasant  land,  but  my  own  small  room, 

Where  the  moon's  bright  beams  pierced  through  the 

gloom ; 

But  a  glimpse  I  caught,  in  its  startled  flight, 
Of  the  form  of  a  butterfly-winged  sprite. 


139 


THE  DEATHS  OF  JOSEPHINE  AND  NAPOLEON. 

'"    __      ••*"£•"'( 

,-.  ;",»!••-  '  \  \ 

'T  WAS  night ;  upon  her  couch  of  death  the  royal  Era- 
press  lay, 

Her  loving,  kind,  and  gentle  soul  was  soon  to  pass  away ; 

Her  weeping  children  by  her  side  in  earnest  prayer 
knelt  low, 

And  oft  the  deep,  convulsive  sob  betrayed  their  bitter 
woe. 

The  meek  and  reverend  priest  stood  there,  and  soothed 
the  sorrowing  band, 

And  spoke  in  accents  calm  and  mild  of  the  bright  and 
better  land. 

An  angel-smile  now  lighted  up  her  fair  and  lovely  face, 

Where  pain  and  suffering  seemed  to  shed  a  purer, 

T 1! 


140  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS.. 

"Weep  not,"  she  said,  —  her  voice  was  faint  as  the 

summer  breeze's  sigh,  — 
"  And  be  not  grieved,  my  gentle  ones,  that  I  so  soon 

must  die ; 
Cherish  my  memory  within  your  faithful  hearts  and 

true; 
For  the  best  good  of  France  I  've  done  all  in  my  power 

to  do; 
I  've  sought  to  soothe  the  mourner's  grief,  to  calm  the 

sufferer's  woe, 

I  never  willingly  have  caused  a  single  tear  to  flow; 
And  in  my  Saviour  now  I  trust,  whose  love  no  words 

may  tell ; 
My   children,  long  and  dearly  loved  !    kind,  faithful 

friends,  farewell !  " 
The  last  sweet,  sadly  solemn  sounds  died  on  the  air 

away, 
And  soon  in  calm  and  gentle  sleep  the  lovely  sufferer 

lay; 
While  from  the  mourning  group  around  no  sound  of 

grief  was  heard, 
Save  when  by  some  half-smothered  sigh  the  air  was 

lightly  stirred. 


THE    DEATHS    OF   JOSEPHINE   AND   NAPOLEON.      141 

There  was  not  one  who  ever  knew,  not  one  who  e'er 

had  seen, 
But  loved  within  their  inmost  heart  the  good,  kind 

Josephine. 
The  tearful  suppliant  never  bent  the  knee  to  her  in 

vain, 
Her  heart  was  all  too  kind  to  see  untouched  another's 

pain  ; 
To  suffering  want  her  open  hand  dispensed  a  liberal 

store, 
And  daily  was  she  blest  in  prayer  by  thousands  of  the 

poor. 
How  could  a  spirit  pure  as  hers  earth's  darker  trials 

^  know, 
Drain  to  the  dregs  the  bitterest  cup  of  human  grief  and 

woe? 
How  could  a  priceless  love  like  hers  be  coldly  cast 

away, 

And  broken  be  the  holiest  vows  a  mortal  man  may  say? 
It  was  Ambition's  ruthless   hand  which  crushed  the 

gentlest  heart 
That  ever  'mid  the  scenes  of  earth  unsullied  bore  its 

part; 


142  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Reckless  Ambition  !  that  attained  its  proudest,  loftiest 

height, 
Then   sunk   with  sudden,  fearful  speed   in  dark  and 

gloomy  night. 
Yet  still  the  loving  heart  he  broke,  when  high   in 

"  pride  of  place," 
Would  willingly  have  shared  his  fall,  imprisonment, 

disgrace  ; 
When  she  who  should  have  been  with  him,  his  younger, 

fairer  bride, 
His  fallen  fortunes  did  not  share,  was  absent  from  his 

side. 
O  matchless  in  thy  woman's  love !    O  high  and  pure  of 

heart!  7!  9 

Earth  had  no  more  to  keep  thee  here,  —  't  was  better 

to  depart. 


Wild  is  the  tempest's  fearful  sweep 
O'er  the  lone  island  of  the  deep  ! 
The  maddened  waves  with  mighty  roar 
Dash  foaming  on  the  rock-ribbed  shore, 


THE   DEATHS    OF   JOSEPHINE   AND   NAPOLEON.      143 

\ 

Whose  giant  cliffs  rise  stern  and  high 
And  the  wild  tempest's  rage  defy. 
Onward,  in  fierce,  delirious  wrath, 
The  storm-king  sweeps  his  fearful  path  ; 
The  whirlwind  rides  on  mighty  wings, 
And  everywhere  destruction  brings. 
Trees  that  for  centuries  have  thriven, 
Spreading  their  branches  free  and  fair, 
Now  from  the  earth  are  wildly  riven, 
And  scattered  on  the  darkened  air  ; 
The  spreading  willows'  pensile  boughs, 
Beneath  whose  cool  and  grateful  shade 
The  weary  exile  sat  and  mourned, 
Are  now  in  ruin  lowly  laid. 
But,  O  !  the  tempest's  frightful  power 
Is  all  unheeded  in  this  hour 
By  that  small,  tried,  and  faithful  band 
Around  their  monarch's  couch  who  stand  : 
The  appalling  horrors  of  the  storm 
O'er  them  no  deeper  shade  can  fling  ; 
They  see  above  their  Master's  form 
The  dark  Death-angel's  gloomy  wing. 


144  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Wild  is  the  awful  scene  without, 
Terrific  is  the  tempest's  din  ! 
More  wild,  more  fearful,  gloomier  far, 
The  struggle  of  the  soul  within  ! 

He  who  his  blood-dyed  flag  unfurled 
Victorious  over  half  the  world,  — 
Whom  kings  and  princes  bowed  before,  — 
Who  made  the  diadem  he  wore,  — 
Who  like  an  idol  was  adored 
As  his  proud  army's  "  Victor  Lord,"  — 
Whose  voice  of  power,  whose  very  glance, 
Shook  to  its  heart  the  realm  of  France,  — 
Whose  "  star  "  had  shed  its  brightest  light 
Only  to  set  in  deeper  night,  — 
Who  won  the  loftiest  height  of  all, 
That  greater  still  might  be  his  fall,  — 
Yes  !  he  who  held  the  world  in  awe, 
Whom,  fallen,  the  earth  in  terror  saw, 
Is  bending  in  this  fearful  hour 
Before  the  last  and  greatest  power, 
Whose  claims  the  highest  heart  of  pride 
May  never,  never  set  aside  ! 


m 

THE    DEATHS    OF   JOSEPHINE   AND   NAPOLEON.      145 

Hark !  from  his  parted  lips  what  sound 
Startles  the  weeping  group  around  ? 
Lo  !  in  his  wild,  delirious  trance, 
He  raves  of  his  beloved  France ; 
His  spirit,  busy  with  the  strife, 
The  turmoil  of  a  warrior's  life, 
Breaks  forth  into  the  battle-cry, 
"  Now,  now !  Dessaix  !  Massena  !  fly  ! 
Ha !  press  them  close !  ours,  ours  the  victory ! " 
Now  the  wild  transports  die  away, 
Gleams  for  a  while  a  calmer  ray  ; 
His  wife,  his  son,  his  thoughts  now  claim, 
Fondly  he  whispers  each  loved  name. 
While  mourning  for  his  Austrian  queen, 
Cornes  there  no  thought  of  Josephine  ? 
Wronged,  slighted,  in  his  height  of  power, 
She  is  avenged  in  this  dread  hour. 
His  lofty  mind  grows  dark  and  dim, 
The  cloud  of  death  o'ershadows  him ; 
Again  he  wanders  in  the  past; 
These  few  faint  words,  they  are  his  last, — 


146  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

He  sees  the  battle's  stormy  fray, 

Gives  one  faint  shout  of  "  Tete  d'Armee! 

And  then  the  dark  eye's  lightning  fire, 

Once  so  terrific  in  its  ire, 

So  wondrous  in  its  spell  of  power, 

Death's  dull,  dark  film  now  glazes  o'er. 

As  a  deep,  heavy,  sullen  sound, 
Above  the  tempest  echoing  round, 
Told  the  last  hour  of  dying  day, 
Napoleon's  spirit  passed  away. 


147 


..-       .        '    >.,.-       -,'.  •     •   .,  ;..    . -.-     -     ,,  ; 

THE  REMOVAL  OF  NAPOLEON'S  REMAINS. 


THE  sounding  surge  of  the  ocean's  wave 

Dashes  against  St.  Helen's  rock, 
That  stands  like  a  warrior  stern  and  brave, 

Breasting  the  desperate  shock  ; 
The  crested  billows  to  foam  are  lashed, 
The  stormy  waters  to  spray  are  dashed, 

But  the  rock  frowns  still  and  grim : 
As  a  warrior  cased  in  his  plaited  mail 
Feels  not  the  javelin's  hurtling  hail, 

In  the  battle's  rushing  din. 


148         ;  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Meet  is  his  tomb  for  the  giant  stern 

Who  strode  o'er  the  prostrate  world, 
Who  deluged  the  earth  with  a  crimson  stream, 

Where  his  meteor-flag  was  unfurled. 
Meet  is  his  tomb ;  with  the  dashing  surge 
Evermore  sounding  the  ocean-dirge 

Of  the  conqueror's  lonely  sleep  ; 
Meet  tomb  for  the  frame  of  the  warrior  bold, 
Whose  restless  spirit  earth  might  not  hold,  — 

That  isle  on  the  rolling  deep ! 

But  who  are  these,  in  the  midnight  deep, 

Thus  gathered  around  his  tomb  ? 
And  why  does  the  light  of  the  gleaming  torch 

Flare  up  through  the  sombre  gloom? 
They  are  friends,  who  were  with  him  in  days  of  power,  • 
They  are  friends,  who  were  with  him  in  sorrow's  hour,  • 

But,  behold  !  what  do  they  here  ? 
They  have  come  for  the  dead !  the  silent  urn 
Must  yield  up  the  dust  of  the  warrior  stern, 

To  whom  nations  bowed  in  fear. 


THE  REMOVAL  OF  NAPOLEON'S  REMAINS.    149 

The  hands  of  the  laborers  toil  amain, 

As  the  stars  gleam  forth  on  high ; 
O  Josephine  !  does  thy  bright  star  shine 

In  the  depths  of  the  azure  sky  ? 
The  sun  in  the  heavens  shines  full  and  bright, 
And  pours  in  the  tomb  a  flood  of  light, 

Ere  they  lay  the  coffin  bare  ; 

And  with  trembling  hands  they  have  touched  the  urn, 
And  the  hearts  of  the  bravest  within  them  burn, 

For  the  mighty  dead  is  there  ! 

The  mighty  dead !  in  whose  living  hand 

The  fate  of  earth's  kingdoms  lay ; 
And  sceptres  and  crowns  but  playthings  were, 

Beneath  his  despot  sway ; 
And  human  blood  but  a  stream  of  gore, 
And  human  lives  but  sand  on  the  shore 

Of  his  ambition's  sea ; 
And  the  faithless  breach  of  a  promise  made, 
And  the  lofty  and  noble  to  death  betrayed, 

But  a  stroke  of  policy. 


150  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

O,  ever  around  the  conqueror's  path 

Will  throng  the  dazzled  crowd, 
And  the  ear  of  Heaven  insulted  be 

With  their  plaudits  long  and  loud  ! 
With  the  trumpet  of  fame  they  sing  renown, 
And  they  place  on  his  brow  the  laurel  crown, 

And  the  knee  before  him  bow. 
But  where  is  the  homage  and  worship  given, 
When  the  power  from  the  red  right  hand  is  riven, 

And  the  crown  from  ihe  haughty  brow? 

But  other  and  loftier  deeds  were  his 

In  his  days  of  regal  power, 
And  he  left  to  the  sunny  land  of  France 

A  better  and  nobler  dower, 
And  a  brighter  halo  around  his  name 
Than  ever  can  shine  from  a  warrior's  fame, 

Or  a  chieftain's  high  renown. 
And  his  spirit  is  still  abroad  in  France, 
It  has  roused  them  once  from  their  slumbering  trance, 

And  stricken  the  tyrant  down. 


THE  REMOVAL  OF  NAPOLEON'S  REMAINS.    151 

There  were  million  hearts  that  beat  for  him, 

Who  were  valiant,  tried,  and  true, 
When  the  last  and  fatal  blow  was  struck 

On  the  field  of  Waterloo ; 
When  he  gave  himself,  in  an  evil  hour, 
A  prisoner  to  a  foreign  power, 

To  an  ungenerous  foe. 
And  a  faithful  few  were  with  him,  while, 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  on  that  sea-girt  isle, 

He  pined  beneath  the  blow. 

They  have  opened  the  triple  coffin  now,  — 

Is  it  dust  that  they  behold  ? 
Why  starts  one  back  with  a  scream  of  joy, 

As  they  raise  the  satin  fold  ? 
Napoleon's  self  before  them  lies, 
On  the  Emperor's  form  they  fix  their  eyes, 

On  him  almost  adored  ; 

On  his  broad,  high  brow,  with  its  placid  light, 
And  his  hands,  like  a  lady's,  small  and  white, 

That  wielded  the  gleaming  sword. 


152  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Deeply  their  hearts  are  within  them  stirred, 

And  their  eyes  are  rilled  with  tears, 
For  that  placid  face  is  hardly  changed 

By  the  sleep  of  twenty  years ; 
From  his  eye  the  warrior's  fire  has  fled, 
And  a  smile  on  the  lip  of  the  silent  dead 

Seems  of  inward  peace  to  speak ; 
O,  there  are  hallowed  moments,  when, 
To  the  bravest  hearts  and  the  strongest  men, 

Tears  are  no  longer  weak  ! 


They  have  closed  the  warrior  dust  from  view, 

They  have  left  St.  Helen's  shore, 
And  France  from  his  English  foes  receives 

Her  gallant  son  once  more. 
They  have  laid  him  beneath  the  drooping  fold 
Of  the  crimson  pall  inwrought  with  gold, 

The  Eagle  and  the  Star  ; 
With  burning  lights  around  him  placed, 
With  pomp  and  pageantry  embraced, 

He  is  borne  to  his  rest  afar.     - 


THE  REMOVAL  OF  NAPOLEON'S  REMAINS.    153 

He  is  placed  again  upon  the  shore 

Of  his  beloved  France, 
And  a  million  hearts  their  triumph  show 

In  the  dark  eye's  flashing  glance. 
And  myriad  eyes  have  watched  for  him, 
From  the  first  pale  ray  of  the  morning  dim, 

Till  the  sun  rose  high  and  bright  ; 
And  the  funeral  pomp  and  the  mourning  train 
Of  gallant  vessels  passed  up  the  Seine, 

Bathed  in  a  flood  of  light. 

And  thousands  of  brave  and  gallant  men, 

Their  country's  strength  and  stay, 
For  the  bravest  soldier  France  might  boast 

Waited  and  watched  this  day. 
Yet  once  again  't  is  the  solemn  night, 
When,  by  the  torches'  gleaming  light, 

A  manly  form  is  seen, 
With  stately  head,  and  pallid  brow, 
Kneeling  before  the  coffin  low, 

With  dark  and  troubled  mien. 


154  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

He*  is  a  warrior  who  has  fought 

On  many  a  battle-field, 
And  in  the  sternest  conflict  hour 

Would  rather  die  than  yield. 
But  he  kneels  his  monarch's  form  beside, 
And  memory's  flood  with  a  rushing  tide 

O'erwhelms  him  with  its  power, 
Unseals  in  his  heart  the  mighty  deep, 
And  as  warlike  men  alone  can  weep, 

So  weeps  he  in  this  hour. 

And  those  around  him  awe-struck  stand, 

For  his  grief  is  stern  and  strong, 
And  he  strives  not  to  hide  his  anguish  deep 

From  the  mutely  gazing  throng. 
If  the  heart  by  the  coffined  dead  be  stirred, 
Till  in  trumpet  tones  it  will  be  heard, 

What  power  had  the  living  form  ? 
If  the  bravest  warriors  powerless  kneel, 
And  the  heaving  chest,  and  tears,  reveal 

The  mastery  of  the  storm  ? 


Marshal  Soult. 


THE   REMOVAL    OF   NAPOLEON'S   REMAINS.        155 

But  the  scene  again  is  changed,  and  now, 

In  royal  pomp  and  state, 
Beneath  the  Invalides'  proud  dome 

Monarch  and  people  wait ; 
'T  is  a  solemn  and  a  stately  sight, 
The  sable  draperies  dark  as  night, 

The  gloomy  grandeur  there  ; 
Proud  banners  from  the  well  fought  field, 
Where  sternest  foes  were  taught  to  yield, 

Are  waving  on  the  air. 

Each  pillar  some  high  trophy  bears, 

Telling  Napoleon's  fame, 
And  the  laurel  wreath  is  still  entwined 

Around  the  conqueror's  name  ; 
And  the  tricolor  proudly  gleams 
Amid  the  thousand  darting  beams 

Of  pale  and  silvery  light, 
As  when,  on  some  stern  battle  day, 
'T  was  foremost  borne  amid  the  fray, 

First  in  the  stormy  fight. 


156  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Thousands  beneath  the  lofty  dome 

Have  prayed  to  see  this  hour, 
And  many  a  brave  old  soldier  there, 

In  bygone  days  of  power, 
Oft  drew  for  him  the  gleaming  sword, 
Bade  nations  own  their  "  Victor  Lord 

On  many  a  triumph-day, 
Despising  wounds,  despising  death, 
And  counting  life  but  idle  breath, — 

Such  his  all-potent  sway. 

And  one,*  by  age  and  suffering  bent, 

For  this  has  lingered  here, 
To  gaze  within  the  realm  of  France 

Upon  his  master's  bier. 
O,  't  is  a  goodly  sight,  I  ween, 
The  stately  pomp,  the  solemn  scene ! 

And  the  holy  bishop  stands, 
With  reverent  mien,  in  silence  there, 
And  eyes  upraised,  as  if  in  prayer, 

And  clasped  and  lifted  hands. 

*  Marshal  Moncey . 


THE   REMOVAL    OF   NAPOLEON'S    REMAINS.        157 

But  hark !  what  sound  on  the  silence  breaks, 

Startling  the  listening  ear? 
The  deep-toned  cannon's  thunder-voice 

Tells  that  Napoleon  's  here ! 
Onward  the  funeral  pageant  comes, 
With  the  long,  deep  roll  of  the  muffled  drums,  — 

A  sadly  solemn  sound  ; 

And  the  hearts  of  the  myriad  crowd,  that  wait 
To  gaze  on  the  funeral  pomp  and  state, 

Beat  with  a  quicker  bound. 

O,  't  is  a  proud,  yet  mournful  hour, 

To  those,  the  true  and  tried, 
Who  stood,  in  victory,  woe,  and  death, 

Fast  by  their  master's  side  ! 
Faithful,  when,  round  that  lonely  isle, 
Earth's  trembling  kings  kept  watch  the  while, 

O'er  one  lone,  captive  form, 
With  Argus-eyed  and  jealous  care,  — 
For  more  they  feared  the  spirit  there, 

Than  the  earthquake  or  the  storm. 


158  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Through  the  long  line  of  warrior-kings 

The  monarch's  dust  hath  passed  ; 
Stood  they  not  there  to  wait  for  him, 

The  mightiest  and  the  last? 
Did  not  their  spirits,  hovering  there, 
Gaze,  viewless,  from  the  silent  air, 

Upon  that  long  array  ? 
Napoleon  !  did  thy  spirit  then 
Claim  mastery  o'er  the  souls  of  men, 

And  hold  their  hearts  in  sway  ? 

They  pass,  with  slow  and  stately  step, 

His  own  proud  dome  beneath, 
In  holy  silence  stand  the  throng, 

With  stillness  as  of  death ; 
Till  trembling  music  round  them  floats, 
Low,  sweet,  harmonious  angel-notes 

Soft  wailing  in  the  air ! 
'T  is  the  requiem  for  the  silent  dead  ; 
By  the  holy  bishop  the  mass  is  said, 

And  the  solemn,  thrilling  prayer. 


THE    REMOVAL    OF   NAPOLEON'S   REMAINS.        159 

'T  is  over  ;  regal  pomp  and  state 

Alike  have  passed  away, 
The  homage  to  the  kingly  dead, 

The  pageant  of  a  day. 
But  who  with  prophet  eye  shall  look 
In  the  dim  future's  unseen  book, 

Its  mystic  language  find  ? 
Or  tell  what  spirit  shall  arise 
From  where  his  form  in  silence  lies, 

To  bless  or  blast  mankind  ? 


160 


TIME,  THE  HUNTER. 


THERE  were  hunters  bold  in  the  days  of  old, 

Say  legend,  lay,  and  rhyme, 
But  no  hunter  there  can  ever  compare 

With  that  stern  old  hunter,  —  Time. 
He  rouses  his  game  both  early  and  late, 

In  darkness  as  well  as  in  light, 
And  stealthily,  silently,  follows  he, 

He  follows  by  day  and  by  night. 

Death  and  Decay  are  his  hounds  alway, 
The  hounds  of  old  Hunter  Time  ; 

And  he  follows  them  fast  as  the  rushing  blast, 
In  every  age  and  clime. 


TIME,   THE   HUNTER.  161 

'T  is  in  vain  to  fly,  't  is  in  vain  to  hide, 
His  hounds  are  fleet  and  their  scent  is  true, 

And  earth  has  no  place  in  all  its  bounds 
That  may  hide  his  prey  from  view. 

No  bugle-blast  goes  sounding  past, 

As  the  Hunter  hurries  by, 
No  trampling  steed,  with  furious  speed, 

No  shouts  that  rend  the  sky  : 
No  deep-mouthed  bay  from  his  hounds  is  heard, 

As  with  silent  feet  they  spring  ; 
The  Hunter  utters  no  view  halloo, 

As  he  stretches  his  tireless  wing. 

The  whole  earth's  bound  is  his  hunting-ground, 

And  all  things  are  his  prey, 
And  the  mighty  and  vast  must  fall  at  last 

'Neath  the  fangs  of  stern  Decay, 
And  Death  shall  seize  on  the  fairest  form 

That  ever  on  earth  has  shone  ; 
And  they  vie  in  the  speed  of  the  fearful  chase, 

As  the  Hunter  urges  them  on. 
11 


162  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

But  the  day  will  be,  when  the  Hunter  shall  flee 

Before  a  mightier  power ; 
And  Death  and  Decay  shall  vanish  away 

In  that  solemn  and  dreadful  hour, 
When  the  angel  shall  stand  with  one  foot  on  the  sea 

And  one  on  the  trembling  shore, 
And  utter  the  awful  and  dread  command, 

That  Time  shall  be  no  more ! 


163 


THE    TWO   TREES 


IN  a  green  and  lowly  valley 

Stood  a  fair  and  graceful  tree, 
And  among  its  drooping  branches 

Many  a  warbler  carolled  free. 

Underneath  its  pleasant  shadow, 

In  the  summer  sunset  hours, 
Danced  the  gallant  youths  and  maidens, 

Crowned  with  wreaths  of  blooming  flowers. 

Hither  from  life's  toil  and  labor 

Oft  the  aged  came  to  rest ; 
Flying  feet  of  sportive  children 

On  the  velvet  greensward  pressed. 


164  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

There  they  wove  the  wild-flower  garland 
On  the  pleasant  morn  of  May, 

And  they  raised  their  glad  young  voices, 
Warbling  many  a  joyous  lay. 

Near  that  tree  the  bubbling  waters 
Ever  sparkled  in  their  flow, 

O'er  the  white  and  shining  pebbles 
Murmuring  soft,  and  sweet,  and  low. 

Wandering  breezes  perfume-laden 
Played  around  that  favorite  tree, 

Breathing  through  its  soft  green  foliage 
Pleasant  airs  of  mirth  and  glee. 

All  around  that  gentle  valley 
Lofty  hills  rose  proud  and  high, 

Piercing  with  their  crested  summits 
Through  the  clear  and  bright  blue  sky. 

On  the  loftiest  peak  full  proudly, 
And  with  giant  arms  outspread, 


THE    TWO    TREES.  165 

All  its  green  leaves  waving  freely, 
A  sturdy  oak  upreared  its  head. 

Oft  it  gazed  on  scenes  of  beauty, 

On  the  wide  and  verdant  plain, 
Village  church  and  busy  hamlet, 

Waving  fields  of  ripened  grain. 

In  its  strong  and  sturdy  branches 

Oft  the  eagle  built  its  nest, 
And  the  mountain  torrent  thundered 

O'er  the  rough  rock's  rugged  crest. 

Many  years  the  storm  outbraving, 

Laughing  all  its  power  to  scorn, 
It  had  seen  its  weaker  brethren 

By  the  whirlwind  rent  and  torn. 

As  some  rich  man,  high  in  station, 

Gazes  with  disdain  and  scorn 
On  his  less  exalted  neighbour, 

Lowlier  placed,  or  lowlier  born  : 


166  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

So  the  oak,  for  many  a  season, 
With  contempt  and  haughty  pride 

Viewed  the  tree  that  in  the  valley 
Grew  the  rippling  stream  beside. 

This  world's  wealth  is  vain  and  fleeting, 

Pride  oft  goes  before  a  fall, 
And  the  sudden  rushing  tempest 

Oft  will  stoutest  hearts  appall. 

And  one  day  the  muttering  thunder 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  arches  rolled, 

And  the  fiercely  flashing  levin 

Rent  the  black  cloud's  massy  fold. 

All  the  rock-cliff  shook  and  trembled 
At  the  sound  of  fear  and  dread, 

Shrunk  the  streamlet,  paused  the  torrent, 
Leaping  from  its  rocky  bed. 

As  the  pure  and  humble-minded 
Unto  sorrow  meekly  bow, 


THE    TWO    TREES.  167 

Not  against  the  storm  contending 
Which  has  power  to  lay  them  low  : 

So  the  elm-tree,  humbly  bending, 
Stood  with  garments  torn  and  rent, 

In  the  valley  lowly  drooping, 

All  its  branches  bowed  and  bent. 

But  its  root  was  all  uninjured, 

And  its  heart  was  strong  and  true, 

And  a  day  of  pleasant  sunshine 
Might  its  outward  form  renew. 

But  the  oak-tree,  high  and  haughty, 
When  the  storm-cloud  passed  away, 

Shivered,  blackened,  torn,  and  blasted, 
All  its  boughs  in  ruin  lay. 

Its  proud  heart  was  crushed  and  broken, 

All  its  bravery  was  gone  : 
Such  the  fate  of  scornful  proud  ones, 

Trusting  in  themselves  alone. 


168 


SONG    OF   THE    MERMAIDS. 


THERE  rose  a  burst  of  music  wild,  a  sweet  and  mourn- 
ful strain, 

It  floated  with  the  summer  breeze  across  the  heaving 
main  ; 

Dirge-like  and  low  the  solemn  notes  came  to  the  start- 
led ear, 

But  in  their  soul-subduing  strain  there  was  no  tone  of 
fear. 

No  trumpet's  note,  no  pealing  drum,  no  widely  echoing 

horn  :  — 
Far  different  sounds  from  those  of  earth  were  on  those 

breezes  borne  :  — 
'T  was  music,  from  their  winding  shells,  by  mourning 

mermaids  played  ; 
For  a  gallant,  brave,  and  noble  form  to  his  rest  was 

lowly  laid  ; 


SONG   OF    THE    MERMAIDS.  169 

And  still,  soft  voices  filled  each  pause  the  thrilling 

notes  between, 
And  plaintively  his  dirge  was  sung  by  minstrels  all  un- 


"  He  shall  softly  sleep  in  our  grotto  bright, 
Lit  by  the  pearls'  and  the  diamonds'  light ; 
Of  the  coral  fair  shall  be  made  his  bed, 
And  each  varied  tint  shall  its  beauty  shed. 

"  The  pale  sea-flowers  on  his  couch  we  lay, 
Dripping  all  fresh  with  the  ocean's  spray  ; 
And  we  strew  them  above  his  lonely  bier, 
That  in  calmness  he  may  repose  him  here. 

"  For  quenched  is  the  light  of  his  brilliant  eye, 

No  gem  could  that  living  light  supply  ; 

And  his  glorious  brow  is  not  less  fair 

Than  the  foam's  light  wreath  on  his  raven  hair. 

"  And  his  manly  heart  is  now  still  and  cold, 
Closely  embraced  in  death's  icy  fold  : 


170  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

There  are  those  that  for  him  will  sigh  and  weep ; 
No  grief  will  disturb  his  tranquil  sleep. 

"  There  may  storms  arise,  but  he  '11  heed  them  not, 
They  have  no  power  in  our  quiet  grot, 
And  the  waves  of  old  ocean  sweep  gently  by, 
With  a  calmer  voice,  as  they  linger  nigh. 

"  O,  soft  be  his  sleep,  till,  as  legends  say, 
Ocean  and  earth  shall  both  pass  away  ! 
O,  soft  be  his  sleep,  and  free  from  alarms, 
A  child  of  the  earth  in  ocean's  arms  !  " 

Again  there  rose  that  music  wild,  that  sweetly  mourn- 
ful strain, 

Then  died  as  with  the  wind's  last  breath  it  floated  o'er 
the  main. 


171 


THE   RIVER   OF   TEMPERANCE, 


'T  WAS  once  a  slender  fountain, 

And  bleeding  hearts  its  source  ; 
Now  a  mighty  rolling  river, 

It  sweeps  its  onward  course. 
It  pours  its  sun-lit  waters, 

A  deep,  resistless  tide  ; 
And  many  a  country's  daughters 

Watch  it  with  joy  and  pride. 

Its  banks  are  green  and  pleasant, 
Its  waters  bright  and  pure  ; 

By  its  side  dwell  prince  and  peasant, 
The  rich  man  and  the  poor. 


172  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

It  calms  the  fevered  spirit, 
It  cools  the  burning  brow, 

And  those  hidden  fires  it  quenches, 
Deep  in  the  heart  that  glow. 

.     '    It  brings  the  joyless  mourner 

Hope,  heart,  and  courage  high, 
And  it  mocks  the  soulless  scorner 

With  springs  that  never  dry. 
Roll  on,  thou  mighty  river, 

Unchecked,  unbounded  be  : 
Nor  cease  thou  thy  course  for  ever, 

Till  the  last  soul  is  free  ! 


173 


WE   LOVED    HIM.' 


On  bis  tomb  were  inscribed  the  simple  bat  eloquent  words,  —  "  We 
loved  him." 


WE  loved  him  !  —  O,  how  beautiful, 
How  tender,  and  how  true ! 

How  full  of  blessed  memories 
Those  simple  words  and  few ! 

We  loved  him  !  —  'T  is  a  father's  tomb 

The  holy  record  bears  ; 
A  father  passed  away  from  earth 

And  all  its  weary  cares. 

We  loved  him ;  —  on  his  lofty  brow 
Truth's  signet  seal  was  set, 

And  in  his  high  and  noble  heart 
All  manly  virtues  met. 


174  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

We  loved  him  ;  —  generous,  yet  just, 
Most  kind  when  seeming  stern  ; 

We  weep  above  his  hallowed  dust 
Within  this  sacred  urn. 

We  loved  him,  while  upon  this  earth 
He  did  his  Father's  will ; 

To  us  remains  the  blessed  hope 
In  heaven  to  love  him  still. 


175 


THE   EARTH   AND   THE    MOON. 


HIGH  sat  the  queenly  moon 

Upon  her  golden  throne, 
The  glittering  courtier  stars  around 

In  jewelled  vestures  shone. 

She  gazed  upon  the  earth, 
That  fair  beneath  her  lay  ; 

The  earth  in  silent  beauty  slept 
Beneath  her  royal  sway. 

The  flowers  had  closed  their  lids, 
The  birds  had  ceased  to  sing, 

And  rested  on  each  drooping  spray 
With  weary,  folded  wing. 


176  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

What  did  the  sons  of  earth 

Beneath  the  moon's  bright  beams  ? 

Some  like  the  flowers  all  peaceful  slept, 
Some  lay  in  frightful  dreams. 

She  saw  the  city's  watch 

Faithless  in  slumber  fall, 
And  in  the  low,  degraded  street 

The  frequent,  midnight  brawl. 

Of  lawless  pleasure's  cup 
Some  madly  drank  amain  ; 

But,  O  !  how  bitter  were  the  dregs, 
How  full  of  woe  and  pain  ! 

Some  lay  on  beds  of  state, 
And  vainly  sought  repose  ; 

Some  waited  round  the  sufferer's  couch, 
The  dying  eye  to  close. 

The  student  o'er  his  books       t'ir/i 
Bent  by  the  taper's  light, 


THE   EARTH   AND   THE   MOON.  •   177 

With  fevered  cheek  and  pallid  brow 
And  eye  too  wildly  bright. 

Few  were  the  eyes  to  heaven 

Upraised  in  silent  prayer, 
But  of  those  whose  hearts  in  vain  might  strive 

With  grief  too  great  to  bear. 

And  a  veil  of  soft,  dark  clouds 

The  moon  around  her  drew, 
And  the  sorrows  and  the  sins  of  men 

Were  hidden  from  her  view. 


178 


DIRGE. 


A  DIRGE  is  sounding  in  mine  ears, 

Solemn,  and  sweet,  and  low, 
Soft  notes  of  heavenly  harmony 

Blent  with  earth's  sounds  of  woe. 

The  moaning  of  my  dying  child, 

A  voice  of  grief  and  pain, 
Comes  wailing  through  the  silent  air, 

A  deeply  mournful  strain  ! 

A  dirge,  a  solemn-sounding  dirge, 

It  ever  moaneth  on, 
And  mine  eyes  are  filled  with  fruitless  tears 

For  her  whose  rest  is  won. 


DIRGE.  179 

Spirit  of  music  !  is  it  thou 

From  whence  these  soft  notes  flow  ? 

And  mournest  thou  in  soul-like  strains 
Thy  votaress  lying  low  ? 

Daughter  of  music  !  from  the  earth 

Thy  soul  of  song  is  riven  ; 
Thou  art  gone  with  thy  clear  and  flute-like  voice 

To  join  the  choir  of  heaven. 

Sound  on,  thou  melancholy  dirge, 

Be  ever  sounding  on  ! 
For  she,  whose  voice  was  melody, 

From  our  saddened  hearth  is  gone. 


180 


CHILDHOOD'S    SIGH. 


"  THOU  child  with  shadowy  hair, 
And  darkly  fringed  blue  eye, 

Dim  with  the  unshed  tears, 
Clouds  in  a  summer  sky, — 

"  Why  art  thou  not  with  those 
Whose  frolic-bounding  feet 

Over  the  flower-gemmed  sward 
Are  dancing  light  and  fleet  ? 

11  Why  turnest  thou  away 
From  joyous,  youthful  bands  ? 

Why  meekly  o'er  the  breast 

Dost  fold  thy  small  white  hands? 


CHILDHOOD'S  SIGH.  181 

"  What  sorrow  may  be  thine, 

Thou  beautiful  and  mild  ? 
What  grief  to  thee  severe  ? 

Tell  me,  O  gentle  child  !  " 

The  fair  child  spake  no  word, 

No  voice  came  floating  by,  — 
The  air  was  only  stirred 

With  a  deep  and  troubled  sigh. 

More  eloquent  than  speech, 

More  sad,  more  mournful  far, 
Than  tears  which  lightly  fall, 

And  soon  forgotten  are,  — 

Language  most  deeply  sad, 

Is  gentle  childhood's  sigh, 
Touching  the  hidden  spring 

Of  tender  sympathy. 

Fair  childhood  !  thou  shouldst  be 
Gay  as  the  flying  hours; 


182  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

And  ev'n  thy  very  tears, 
But  dew  upon  the  flowers. 

O,  not  within  thy  heart 

Should  live  that  grief  untold, 

Which  speaks  but  in  a  sigh  ! 

"  Sighs  are  for  hearts  grown  old." 

Sighs  are  for  those  who  know 
The  weary,  wasting  strife, 

The  false  and  fleeting  show 
Of  the  mirage-land  of  life  : 

Sighs  are  for  those  who  mourn 
Affection's  trust  betrayed, 

The  mockery  of  truth, 
And  lofty  hopes  low  laid  : 

Who  have  grown  old  in  grief,  — 
It  is  for  these  thou  art, 

Sad,  melancholy  sigh  ! 
Voice  of  the  heavy  heart ! 


CHILDHOOD'S  SIGH.  183 

Language  woe-fraught  as  this 
Sweet  childhood  should  not  know ; 

But  the  clear  spring  of  joy 
In  music  tones  should  flow. 

And  joyous  hopes  should  glow, 

In  iris  colors  bright, 
Around  each  youthful  brow, 

A  coronal  of  light. 

For  us  there  is  a  land, 

A  better,  happier  shore, 
Where  sighs  shall  flee  away, 

And  sorrow  be  no  more. 


184 


A    SCENE   IN    ENGLAND. 


WILD  raves  the  wintry  wind, 
The  arrowy  sleet  pours  fast, 

While  the  vexed  spirit  of  the  storrn 
Flies  moaning  on  the  blast. 

Haste  to  your  happy  homes, 

Haste  to  your  hearth's  warm  glow, 

Haste  to  the  ease  which  ye  perchance 
May  not  deserve  to  know ; 

Ye,  on  whom  fortune  smiles, 
And  sheds  her  genial  ray, 

Who  deem  that  clouds  can  never  rise 
To  shroud  in  gloom  your  day  ; 


A    SCENE    IN   ENGLAND.  185 

Upon  your  soft,  warm  couch, 

Upon  your  downy  bed, 
Ye  may  repose  your  weary  limbs, 

Or  rest  your  aching  head  ; 

But  here,  in  this  lone  cot 

Ye  pass  unheeded  by, 
Children  of  poverty  and  want 

Have  laid  them  down  to  die. 

Cold  is  their  bed  and  damp, 

They  have  no  food,  no  fire  ; 
Life's  ebbing  current  fainter  flows, 

Its  last  cold  waves  retire. 

Who  sits  beside  their  couch 

With  woe-worn,  wasted  form, 
His  thin  cheek  marked  by  famine's  hand, 

By  sorrow's  bitter  storm  ? 

He  is  the  father  of  those  boys  ; 
Has  he  no  power  to  save  ? 


186  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

His  hand  is  impotent  to  snatch 
Those  loved  ones  from  the  grave. 

One  wasted  hand  is  hid 
In  his  wild,  flowing  hair, 

And  in  his  fixed  and  hollow  eyes 
There  sits  a  calm  despair. 

One  faintly  murmured  prayer, 
One  low  and  shuddering  moan, 

And  those  emancipated  souls 
To  a  better  world  are  gone. 

Yet  from  their  father's  eyes 
There  falls  no  tear  of  grief, 

No  heavy,  sorrow-laden  sigh 
Gives  his  worn  heart  relief. 

But  still  and  calm  the  voice 
In  which  his  words  are  said, 

Though  fearful  in  their  import  stern, 
"  Thank  God  that  they  are  dead  ! 


A   SCENE    IN   ENGLAND.  187 

"  Think  ye  I  loved  them  not, 

Because  I  do  not  weep  ? 
Because  1  thank  the  God  of  heaven, 

That  cold  in  death  they  sleep  ? 

"  To  see  what  I  have  seen, 

To  feel  what  I  have  felt, 
A  heart  as  nether  millstone  hard 

Would  into  softness  melt. 

"  Could  ye  have  seen  their  forms 

Shrink,  pine,  and  waste  away  ; 
Could  ye  have  seen  gaunt  famine's  grasp 

Press  closer  day  by  day  ; 

.  .*•  -   :   ,"i  ...   •'  ••'  • 
"  Could  ye  have  seen  them  starve, 

Ay,  starve,  for  want  of  bread, 
Ye  would  exclaim,  as  I  do  now, 

1  Thank  God  that  they  are  dead  ! ' 

"  How  can  I  mourn  their  loss  ? 
How  can  I  shed  a  tear  ? 


188  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Life,  from  their  cradle  to  their  grave, 
Was  cold,  and  dark,  and  drear." 


The  rich  man's  palace  towereth  high 
The  poor  man's  hut  beside, 

And  mingled  with  the  wail  of  woe 
Are  songs  of  mirth  and  pride. 

At  wealth  and  luxury's  festal  board 
The  high-born  guests  have  stood, 

Nor  heard  starvation's  fearful  cry 
Of  "  Give  us  bread  or  blood  ! " 

O  England  !  selfish,  vain, 
Haughty,  and  high  of  heart, 

How  like  a  whited  sepulchre, 
Proud  hypocrite,  thou  art ! 


189 


THE    MAIDENS    AND   THE   LEAVES, 


ON  the  grassy  banks  of  the  winding  Charles 

Stood  two  gentle  maidens  fair  ; 
And  their  youthful  voices  in  joyous  tones 

Rung  out  on  the  breezy  air. 

One  had  locks  the  hue  of  the  raven's  wing, 
When  the  sunbeams  on  it  glance  ; 

And  an  eye  that  a  poet  might  have  borne 
"  In  the  days  of  Young  Romance." 

And  a  fair,  pale  face,  and  a  marble  brow, 

That  told  of  the  noble  mind 
Which  lay,  like  a  brilliant  and  sparkling  gem, 

In  that  beautiful  form  enshrined. 


190  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

The  other  was  formed  in  a  different  mould, 

And  the  wandering  zephyrs  flew 
Through  her  waving  tresses  of  shadowy  gold, 

And  her  laughing  eye  was  blue. 

Her  winning  smile  and  her  gleeful  glance 

Like  a  beam  of  sunshine  fell ; 
Making  the  saddest  heart  rejoice, 

Like  some  sweet,  bewitching  spell. 

And  her  gifted  mind  shone  brightly  out 

In  her  fair  and  youthful  face, 
And  the  charm  of  a  kind  and  a  gentle  heart 

Shed  around  her  a  lovely  grace. 

But  what  were  they  doing  beside  that  stream, 

With  its  waters  sparkling  bright? 
They  were  casting  green  leaves  on  its  bosom  fair, 

And  watching  their  onward  flight. 

They  named  each  leaf  for  some  gallant  youth 
That  sued  for  their  hearts,  I  ween  ; 


THE  .MAIDENS  AND  THE  LEAVES.        191 

And  his  fate,  in  the  rapid  and  fitful  course 
Of  the  hurrying  leaf,  was  seen. 

And  woe  to  the  youth  whose  leaf  was  caught 

In  the  whirling  eddies'  flow ; 
Or  stopped  by  the  clustering  pebbles  small, 

Or  bruised  on  the  rocks  below  ! 

But  joy  to  the  youth  whose  fragile  leaf 

The  arrowy  current  bore 
Safe  through  its  dangers  and  perils  dark, 

To  the  smooth  and  sandy  shore  ! 

But  while  they  were  watching  those  floating  leaves, 

O,  why  did  their  looks  grow  sad, 
And  their  voices  take  such  a  deep,  low  tone, 

That  erst  were  so  gay  and  glad  1 

They  were  thinking,  the  soul  of  man,  alas  ! 

Like  a  leaf  to  the  current  given, 
Has  many  a  struggle  with  evil  powers 

That  would  bar  its  way  to  heaven. 


192  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

'T  is  too  often  wrecked  on  the  rocks  of  Pride, 

Or  lost  in  the  gulfs  of  Passion  ; 
Or  prisoned  among  the  thousand  snares 

Of  a  vain  and  worldly  Fashion. 

O,  happy  the  souls  that  reach  the  shore, 

All  their  perils  safely  past, 
Their  troubles,  their  toils,  and  their  dangers  o'er, 

And  their  haven  reached  at  last ! 

And  the  two  fair  girls,  with  thoughtful  brows, 

And  with  wiser  hearts,  I  ween, 
With  gentle  looks,  and  with  quiet  steps, 

Turned  away  and  left  the  scene. 


193 


THE   MUSIC   OF   THE   SPHERES, 


'T  is  not  amid  the  crowd,  the  strife, 
The  tumult  and  the  care  of  life, 

Its  vain  desires  and  turmoil  vain, 
Its  hopes,  that,  like  the  inconstant  moon, 

Now  brightly  wax,  now  feebly  wane, 
Appear  and  disappear  as  soon,  — 

Not  then  the  heart  attuned  to  love 
Rises  the  cold,  dark  world  above. 

Not  when  the  soul  in  selfish  aim, 
<    In  narrow,  sensual  desire, 
Forgets  the  source  from  whence  it  came, 
And  smouldering  lies  the  ethereal  fire, 


194  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

That  heavenly  hopes  and  wisdom's  fears 
Should  have  kept  bright  through  countless  years, 
Not  then  the  dull  perception  feels 
The  glory  that  high  heaven  reveals. 

Free  from  wild  passion's.evil  stain, 
Free  from  the  fetter  and  the  chain, 

Free  from  the  thousand  cords  that  bind, 
Free  from  the  utter  selfishness 

Around  the  very  heart-strings  twined, 
And  crushing  all  their  power  to  bless,  — 
So  must  the  heart  and  soul  be  free, 
Diviner  life  than  this  to  see. 

The  outer  beauty  of  the  earth, 

The  brilliant  glory  of  the  heaven, 
To  him  who  thinks  them  little  worth, 
To  see  them  all  may  yet  be  given ; 
But  closed  his  ear  and  closed  his  eye 
Unto  an  inner  life  more  high  ;  — 
His  spirit  bends  not  at  the  shrine 
Whence  flows  a  harmony  divine. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES.         195 

But  when  the  soul  in  holy  love 
Is  lifted  earthly  cares  above, 

When  in  the  heart  there  lives  no  thought 
An  angel's  self  might  blush  to  own, 

When  all  the  feelings  finely  wrought, 
Mingle  in  love's  accordant  tone,  — 

'T  is  then  the  soul  enraptured  hears 
The  heavenly  music  of  the  spheres. 

As,  floating  through  ethereal  space, 

All  in  appointed  orbits  turn,         t.. 
In  glorious  light  their  paths  they  trace, 
And  with  divine  effulgence  burn  ;  — 
Harmonious  since  the  birth  of  time 
The  measured  movement  of  their  chime, 
Its  deep,  eternal  music  rings 
High  anthem  to  the  King  of  kings. 

Few,  few  the  wondrous  strains  have  heard, 
But  all  the  inmost  being  stirred, 

And  with  mysterious  rapture  filled, 
Have  felt  as  life  divine  were  given, 


196  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

As  if  their  hearts  like  harp-strings  thrilled 
Responsive  to  the  choir  of  heaven  ;  — 
Only  the  free,  pure  spirit  hears 
The  heavenly  music  of  the  spheres. 


THE    END. 


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